Sanctuary
by Little Knight Mik
Summary: Three months have passed since the outbreak had occurred, and now rumours of a safe zone have surfaced among survivors. People from all walks of life, having survived this long in the apocalypse, want to find it. But is it even real? [HIATUS]
1. Then and Now P1

**Hey so welcome to Sanctuary! This is a new SYOC I've been hoping to do for a while, set three months into the apocalypse and detailing a bunch of people wanting to find a rumoured safe zone that's appeared out of nowhere.**

 **Details are pretty simple: Read this, see if it takes your fancy, and if you like what you see, head to my profile and fill out the form at the bottom. Please make sure to PM them _only_ , and if you need any assistance feel free to let me know.**

 **Outside of that, I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Two Weeks**

The crowd won't pass. They shuffle around outside, huddled at the fence line. Patiently moaning and brushing against each other.

She hears the hushed whispers from the beds behind her, barely audible over the groans seeping through the window.

"Will they pass?"

"Surely. They don't know we're here."

"But what if they get in?"

"Impossible. The doors are locked and the furniture is stacked against the windows."

Thoughtful hums. Satisfied sighs. A silent snore from the corner of the room. This is as peaceful as they'll get, she thinks. Perhaps it's as peaceful as they'll ever need.

She turns on her heel and tucks a few in, kissing their foreheads like a dutiful mother wishing her precious children a good night's rest. The curtains are closed and the candles are blown out; the door is shut behind her, just as seven young voices wish her goodnight. Down the stairs, waiting at the very bottom step for her, is the only other adult in the group—Hotaru.

"Kids asleep?" Hotaru asks. She scoffs and descends the stairs, skipping the one that creaked obnoxiously at even the slightest touch.

"I just put them to bed," she growls. "Calm down." Hotaru rolls her eyes and sighs; all too soon, however, a bright smile is on her face. Hotaru tells her that she's made them tea, apparently having found a lovely blend in the cupboards, and leads her to the kitchen with an excited bounce to her steps.

Hotaru hasn't been with them for as long, having only joined little under a week ago. She'd been exhausted and dehydrated, running for an endless amount of time from the undead. She'd looked almost close to death herself, but now look at her—so full of energy and bouncing around over the idea of sharing a cup of tea.

They can hear the undead a lot more clearly from their spot in the living room. The windows, while barricaded, only serve to muffle the sounds by a fraction; if she's honest, she feels almost like the undead are right at the window. Faces pressed against the glass, rotten breath fogging it as they search the backs of the curtains for an opening. The image will probably keep her up tonight, as it had when this had first broken out. The kids are lucky—they've grown braver and braver thanks to being around each other, while she's only become more cautious and worried. That isn't to say she hasn't had her fair share of enjoyment herself, but it would be ideal to be a little less on-edge like the others.

After finally bringing some honey and sugar to the living room, setting them on the floor in front of her, Hotaru idly mentions, "I noticed there was a tool shed in the backyard. Nothing near it, so we can probably check it for supplies."

She merely nods and sips her tea, then opts to pour a generous amount of honey into the drink. "What do you think we'll find?"

"Shovel? Crowbar? Heck, maybe something new for you—that knife can't last you forever."

Hotaru's not wrong, she thinks. After all, with more of the undead showing up in groups, it'll be impossible to sneak up on them and drive the knife through their heads without being overpowered by others.

"I'm thinking," Hotaru says, "that if we get to the shed, we can distract the crowd outside if they're not gone by then. Find some fuel, light a big fire—I don't know."

"But they won't see it."

"Scratch the idea. It's dumb." Hotaru stirs her tea before taking a large gulp. The living room is quiet soon after, neither girl willing to partake in conversation to fill the silence and distract themselves from the groans outside. She wonders if Hotaru is as bothered by the horde as she is; Hotaru certainly seems to be uncertain as she scrapes her thumbnail against the rim of her mug, glancing between herself and the other girl, and then casting her gaze towards the door leading to the backyard.

It's almost too much to watch, witnessing this girl flounder about in her own mind. She says, "Are you okay, Hotaru?"

The reply is almost immediate, but nervous. "Ah, yeah! I'm just a little bit all over the place. I think the sounds from outside are gonna keep me up for a while—you wanna get some rest while I take first watch?"

"Oh. I mean _I_ could—"

"You've been running around all week on just a little sleep. Please, rest." Hotaru smiles at her, a small twitch from her eyebrow accompanying the reassuring gesture. "I'll wake you up in, like, two hours or something."

It seems fairly reasonable, and Hotaru isn't wrong—for two weeks she's done nothing but fret and lose sleep over the level of danger presented before her. She doesn't know what to do, despite making it this far; maybe the rest will do her some good. After all, if a fifteen minute nap on the side of the road can help someone driving long distances, maybe her "two hours or something" nap will do her a world a good too. "Alright," she says. "I think I saw a throw pillow in the laundry, too."

Dutiful and determined, Hotaru jumps to her feet and runs to grab the pillow, returning just barely a moment later while she strokes the soft material it's covered in. After making sure it's in a comfy spot and she can rest properly with it, Hotaru bids her a good sleep and retreats to the kitchen with their mugs—one half-empty, the other almost drained entirely of liquid. Hotaru turns off the living room light and takes her spot at the kitchen table. Time drags on almost too slowly, and then altogether sleep takes her.

When she awakes, there's nothing but smoke in her lungs and flames in her eyes. She screams in pain, sitting up rapidly and ripping the throw pillow—now aflame—from her face. The right side stings like hell, the pain almost making her face numb, and among the burning furniture and fabric she can smell her own hair. Oh God, is she on fire?

Wasting no time, she jumps to her feet and stumbles for the bathroom. There's fire everywhere, devouring the house and everything in it; she can just barely make it to the kitchen before she's doubling over and choking on the smoke. She doesn't have time for this—she furiously swats at her head, praying she smothers the flames just enough to get to water, and gives up on her trip to the bathroom. The kitchen sink will have to do.

She bolts for the sink and twists the cold water tap, the water almost filling the sink faster than it can drain. Taking a deep breath, she plunges her head under the stream, just barely holding back a yelp as she feels the burn ache under the sudden removal of heat. She removes her head from the sink after just a few seconds of soaking; she leaves the tap running, breathing hard, and then turns on her heel.

She's got to check on the kids. She's got to get her supplies.

The laundry is the first place she runs for—if the kids have been burned, she'll need the medical supplies in her bag. Lord knows how much more damage they've suffered compared to her.

And where is Hotaru? Why isn't she here, trying to help the kids? Why hasn't she _warned_ them that the house was on fire?

Unless...

It's entirely possible—Hotaru's been with them only a week. She never spends much time with the kids, only ever does what people tell her to do, never seems to make herself known. _Always hiding_.

Hotaru probably did this while she was asleep. Probably took their supplies and ran off to make do on her own. How _low_ can someone go? The kids are barely even in high school, for crying out loud!

She makes it inside the laundry after a few painful kicks are delivered to the door. It falls from its hinges and crashes onto the floor—giving her a proper view of the backyard. Back door left wide open, Hotaru coming in and out of the shed at the back of the yard. She feels anger welling up in her gut; rage almost as hot as the flames around her. _How dare she_.

A quick glance while Hotaru is in the shed confirms that their bags are still here—she quickly scoops hers up before the flames can reach it and drags it outside with her, throwing it to the grass a good distance away from the flames. She breaks into a sprint, adrenaline and rage fuelling her and sending sparks into her fingers. She clenches her fists tightly and reels one back—Hotaru emerges from the shed just as she makes it to the door—the punch lands square on Hotaru's jaw, sending the girl back a few steps as she grabs her face in pain.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she screams at Hotaru. " _We trusted you_!"

"And _I_ needed bait to get rid of them!" Hotaru snaps. "The crowd won't pass—they know we're here—"

"They do _now_!"

" _They'll never leave_!"

Hotaru tries to take a step to the side, out of her way, but her rage pushes her toward her. She tackles Hotaru and pulls her to the ground, the other girl hitting her head on a workbench as she does. Hotaru groans and complains, throwing frantic punch after punch at her, but she does not feel the blows. She's too focused on what Hotaru's done to the kids—her family of two weeks—and to _her_ in order to get away.

She delivers another punch to Hotaru's face, this time disorienting the girl. She climbs off of Hotaru, almost hyperventilating, and frantically searches the shed for something to step up the fight. All sense of rationality and better judgement is gone— _Hotaru has to pay_.

The brunette is slowly rolling onto her knees as she cradles her face in her hands. Hotaru looks to be in a great deal of pain—a small sob just barely makes it out of her—but she doesn't care. She grasps for the nearest object, refusing to take her eyes off of Hotaru, and once the girl is standing again she swings it at her at full force.

She doesn't expect the amount of blood that splatters onto the wall. She doesn't expect Hotaru to just drop after the blow damn near cleaves her head off.

Yet that's what she witnesses, right before she sees the bodies leap from the second floor bedroom—crashing to the ground in a burnt crisp, unmoving and silent.

* * *

 **Two Months**

"This has to be some kind of joke."

She almost chokes on her water as he approaches, seemingly having materialised out of nowhere. "Momo-motherfucking-ko."

Now there's a face she didn't expect to see today. She can see him visibly grind his teeth, fists clenched on either side of him and swinging wildly about as he stomps towards her, and all she can muster up to think is, _Have I already pissed this guy off?_

"Bet you don't remember me, eh?" he spits, coming to a stop just a short distance from her. A good distance, she thinks; if things get ugly, she can throw a knife and kill him without getting her protein bars dirty.

"Sure I do," she says simply. She puts the cap back onto the water bottle. "You're ah, Taco—"

" _Takeo_."

She knew that.

"So what can I do for you, Takeo?"

He sucks in a deep breath and his fists begin to shake. "Take a guess."

Ah, yes, taking a guess. It can range from many things. But if she's pissed off this guy, then that can only mean one thing. She stands and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand; smirks at him and reaches for one of her knives.

"You wanna fight," she states. He doesn't even have to nod at her; the confirmation is clear enough on his eyes. "Alright."

She drops the bottle into her backpack, zipping it up tightly, and carefully holds the opened protein bar in her hand. Her other hand fiddles with her knife enthusiastically. She pops the protein bar into her mouth and dumps the wrapping, and then before Takeo can even blink she flings the knife at him.

It flies towards him, aimed right for his chest, but it never makes the fatal blow. The handle of the knife bounces off of his chest, probably succeeding in only bruising his nipple, she thinks. Takeo just stands there, dumbfounded, and _this is it this is her chance her moment she can do this_.

She breaks into a sprint and runs, screaming obscenities at Takeo with the protein bar still stuffed in her mouth. Another one bites the dust, she thinks. Nobody can get on her level.

Except Takeo gives chase, almost as quick as she had absconded, and he screams obscenities back at her. What an asshole. He's going to attract zombies. Zombies are a bitch to deal with.

By the time she manages to swallow the protein bar, Takeo's fallen back a bit and is reduced to screaming, " _Momoko, you bitch, face me!_ " over and over again. On any normal day she would, but to be honest she's not in the mood for getting into a big brawl with someone who looks like they could bench press her into the pavement.

Any other day, sure.

She's finally lost him by the time she makes it to a house low enough to climb the roof of; she pulls out her water, settles herself on a nice patch of sun, and takes a big swig. Crisis averted, problem solved—and all at the cost of one knife and the enjoyment of one protein bar.

And she hasn't even seen a cat yet. Bonus.


	2. Then and Now P2

**Bear with me, this is going to be a long Author's Note.**

 **Alrighty first thing I want to address here to avoid any confusion: There are** ** _three_** **introductory characters, with only one belonging to me. The two others are in both this chapter, as well as one of them featured in the two months section of chapter one. Momoko (or Momi in this chapter) and the unnamed boy belong to two friends and helpers of mine who are involved in the discussion and planning for Sanctuary, and were created prior to the story's publishing. They have asked to not be named, but I do want to acknowledge that their hands have played a part in this fic and its characters.**

 **I'm saying this to avoid any confusion, in case people think I've chosen characters already. _I have not chosen the entire cast, and as of right now I only have a list of characters I MIGHT use. Nothing regarding decisions will be announced until November, so do not panic. ENTRIES ARE STILL OPEN AND CHARACTERS ARE STILL BEING CONSIDERED._**

 **Second thing to address is this update. I know I've told some of you that I won't be updating until November; however, as a way to keep myself actively involved in this fic, I've decided that I will be providing a September and October update. This is partly for the benefit of myself, as I've been having mental issues lately that will no doubt cause me to drop everything for Lord knows how long unless I keep up with my own projects (I would also like to acknowledge that these friends/helpers are assisting in making sure I don't drop Sanctuary for an extended amount of time unless I'm behind my update schedule. There's more information on my profile regarding what happens with my fics during times of stress/anxiety, mostly as a PSA for when I don't update in a long time). Part of the reason for this update is also to keep this afloat among the updates that are happening every week. I know there's not a lot of activity, but I know that this will be swamped by updates, as well as sort of prone to slipping people's minds if it sits unchanged for a good two months. I want everyone to have a chance to send in their characters, but I also want to remind everyone that this story won't just sit at only one chapter until November.**

 **So yeah, that's it for this author's note. Short summary: Two of the three characters setting up the world belong to two friends/helpers involved in the planning; I have not selected characters for certain yet; this update and the next are to continue setting up the world/keep this fic afloat; entries are still open until November; and information regarding my mental health clashing with my writing can be found at the top of my profile.**

 **That all aside, I hope you enjoy this setup. I should also point out now that there's going to be a pattern with character perspectives in these three chapters. Chapter one had Two Weeks [unnamed girl] and Two Months [Momoko/Momi], this chapter will have Two Weeks [Momoko/Momi] and Two Months [unnamed boy] and finally chapter three will have Two weeks [unnamed boy] and Two Months [unnamed girl]. I hope that's not too confusing, and again that you all enjoy the setup. More info regarding the fic will be released with the October update.**

* * *

 **Two weeks**

"Momi," Mizuki whispers. "Momi, wake up. I saw a cat—"

"No," she replies, hardly bothering to open her eyes. It's four in the morning and she's not in the mood to chase her little sister around because she saw a small cat—cute or otherwise. They're having a hard enough time keeping hidden; following four-legged fluff balls won't help their case.

"But Momi—"

She shushes the eleven-year-old, reaching out and pushing the girl back down onto their shared nest of blankets and pillows. "Momi needs her sleep," she mumbles. "Mizuki should get some sleep too."

The younger huffs and curls up beside her sister, wrapping herself in the blankets and falling immediately back to sleep. With Mizuki back to sleep, she can breathe easy again. The past couple of weeks have been hectic, to say the least; they've lost contact with their mother, unsure of where she is unless the news is watched (and Lord knows Mizuki won't handle that well), and as far as they know there's no way to contact their father. She's done her best to make sure Mizuki doesn't witness much in regards to the world crumbling around them—as far as Mizuki is concerned, a few people have been taken to hospital because they got into fights, and all they have to do is stay inside and stay quiet so people don't try to fight them.

 _If only it were that simple_. She just knows Mizuki will wise up to what's going on, or even outright witness it from the window, but for now the lie will have to do. Just like this itchy pile of blankets she dares call a bed.

Sleep comes easy to her; it's relatively quiet in the area they'd settled in, and as far as she knows every other group in the area has moved on—the zombies following their constant arguments and stress. The only thing they hear each night is the meowing of cats and barking of dogs, the occasional howl of wind as the weather begins to make a turn for the cold. She just hopes that Mizuki won't get too cold in their little house—these blankets were all she could find last week, anyway.

It's quite possibly the first time she's gotten a full night's rest, nothing in the back of her mind waking her up to make sure nothing got inside and was looking for them. It was almost refreshing; the first time in two weeks that she's been able to sleep easy and be free of worries. She thinks so, at least, until she notices that something very important is missing from her usual awakening.

In a panicked stupor, she leaps out of the nest and stumbles around the room, looking desperately for Mizuki. She didn't hear her get up, let alone feel her move; God, how deep a sleep had she been in? She takes in deep breathes, lets out small ones, and paces around the bedroom. Mizuki's backpack is still by the nest, so maybe she left to go to the toilet or get a snack? Certainly, Mizuki is tall enough to reach the bench in the kitchen—who's to say she didn't crave a sandwich and got up to make one for her? Hell, maybe she's even making one for her devoted big sister.

The thought calms her somewhat, and she fixes her tank top as she plods out of the bedroom. Everything is fine. Mizuki is still in the house.

She turns immediately for the bathroom, shivering slightly at the feeling of cold wood flooring under her toes. She's going to have to invest in some slippers or socks if they stay here, or keep a few pairs handy for when the weather starts to drop. She passes the bathroom itself, peeking inside but not spotting Mizuki, and then makes her way through to the toilet. No sign of Mizuki there either.

As per usual with her morning rituals, she checks her phone for any new messages and updates. She sees the usual mass text that the police send out every three days, detailing areas that have lost contact with the station in Ikebukuro. She still finds it endlessly unsurprising that Tokonosu's police station was one of the first to lose contact; the hysteria that came with the initial outbreak had nearly killed entire neighbourhoods in just the first day alone. Police had tried to contain the riots that had broken out, but clearly the panic and hysteria proved more difficult to manage than they'd thought.

She's barely heard anything throughout the house by the time she's flushed the toilet. It's concerning, but she tries to rationalise it a bit more; Mizuki's probably fallen asleep on the couch, or she decided to hide somewhere and scare her big sister. Probably got up and decided that a good ol' scare will make the ever-tired Momi's day.

She passes the stairs, deciding to check the spare bedroom, but still finds no sign of Mizuki. This is starting to border on concerning—sure, there's every possibility that Mizuki is either hiding or in the kitchen, but there's just as much a possibility that some deranged asshole broke into the house while they slept and took her, or that she'd run away in pursuit of a cat. Mizuki is too young and helpless to defend herself if she's not in the house. _Where else could she be?_

Antsy and using all of her willpower to breathe calmly, she runs back to the staircase and practically leaps down them, landing on every third step and nearly falling flat on her face as she rolls her ankle on the very last. She barely takes notice of the pain shooting through her ankle with every hurried step after, simply limping towards the kitchen as best she can. For the love of all things right in the world, let Mizuki be in the kitchen.

Her hopes are dashed on her way to the room, passing through the hall connecting the living room and dining room; immediately to her left is the front door, and a light breeze hits her from the very same direction on her way through. She stops in the middle of the hall, steeling her nerves and reminding herself _it could be a coincidence_ _there's no other way please let it just be a coincidence_. Brown eyes flicker to the door; it's wide open, the chain lock having been pulled out of place. There's a small stool next to it, too small for her to use but the perfect size to help a eleven-year-old reach a lock. Sitting in the middle of the pathway in the front yard is her worst nightmare, yawning innocently before bending down to lick its furry ginger chest.

The cat panics and runs almost as quickly as she does, fleeing for the rose bush while she fumbles for her boots. This time she does trip over, scraping the palms of her hands on the stone path, but that doesn't stop her. Mizuki is outside, and she followed a cat to God knows where. She has to find her; she refuses to simply accept that her little sister will just come back when the fun is over.

"Mizuki's fine," she whispers, picking herself up and hastily putting on her boots. She'll come back for her back and jacket—just as soon as she knows Mizuki is okay. "Mizuki is just playing a prank—she's fine."

She hears a scream coming from all directions, echoing in the empty street like the squealing tires of a speeding car. She almost thinks she's imagining it, until she hears the scream form a word: " _Momi_!"

" _Mizuki_!" she screeches, unable to control herself as she breaks into a sprint. She vaults over the cars left abandoned in the street, her hands aching and her ankle throbbing; she focuses on the direction she'd heard the scream come from. She passes another cat as she stumbles once more, tripping on the gutter, but does her best to ignore it. No time for cats—have to find Mizuki—gotta keep Mizuki safe.

"Mizuki!" she cries again, hoping to hear the younger call out for her in response. Her chest hurts as she strains her ears, waiting for the shout that will lead her to her sister; fingers digging into her skin as her hand hovers over her heart. _Thmp-thmp-thmp_ , it goes, fast and frantic. Any second now it's going to burst out of her chest, or at least it feels so painfully close to doing so. "Mizuki will call out," she whispers to herself. "Mizuki's a good girl—she'll call out."

Almost as though obeying her older sister's command, Mizuki's voice rings out once more. It's weaker this time, drowning in sobs, and she can distantly hear a groan following it. She panics. Her breathing picks up, loses control. Follow the voice, find Mizuki, get her back to the house, _protect her_. She tries to call out for Mizuki again as she runs for the voice, but her throat practically closes up on her—everything she wants to say is stuck, caught in the moment and unable to break free in the hopes of reaching her little sister.

Another cat scampers past. This can't just be coincidence. She can't stop to think on it though—not while Mizuki is still on her own, helpless. She trips over the cat as it jumps in front of her feet; she continues in the direction of Mizuki's voice, listening out for any other sounds.

She's been lead a fair distance away from the house, and she doubts she'd know the way back if the cars weren't haphazardly strewn about the road. It's only now that she realises that in her haste, she'd left her cleaver at the house—she's unarmed. What is she going to do if Mizuki is in danger? She doesn't know martial arts, all she knows is running and hiding; she's the worst person to save her little sister right now! Still though, she thinks, Mizuki would run at an attacker with her own fury as her weapon if her big sister was in danger. Who's to say that ol' Momi can't do the same?

She thinks she's found the area Mizuki's in, multiple alleyways in between the apartment buildings ahead of her. Mizuki's in one of them, she just _knows_ it. She fights back the urge to call out for Mizuki again, instead straining to hear another sob. Any minute now she'll hear Mizuki, and they can go home. They can have some ham sandwiches and sleep for a little bit longer, and this time, _this time_ , she'll let Mizuki bring a cat inside and take care of it.

There's a short cry that's cut off almost as quickly as it slips out, and she _bolts_. Beelines straight for the sound, concern fuelling her determination. It had come from the alley between the two heavily graffitied blocks, yet another cat sitting near the opening. _Too weird. Not a coincidence. Can't stop to dwell._ She shoos the cat away (or at least her frantic sprint scares it off) and pulls her phone from her bra, hoping she won't have to use it as an improvised weapon. She gazes within with bated breath, searching the outlines of the dumpsters for her little sister.

And she hears it.

That small sob, cut off by a groan.

 _And it's so close it hurts_.

A tentative step takes her into the alley, and she slowly, _slowly_ creeps towards the closest dumpster. There's movement behind it, once every few seconds, and each spasm is accompanied by a sob and a groan. _Please no_.

She see two pairs of feet—one of them wearing shoes belonging to Mizuki. The other pair are wearing worn down, bloodied sneakers—a clear indicator that she should be _extremely_ worried right about now. But it won't sink in. Not yet.

Following the feet are legs and hands—Mizuki's shorts are easy enough to recognise, her arms slack and hands laid on either side of her. The lack of movement doesn't set off alarm bells. Why isn't this registering?

Finally she sees her torso, her face—and someone else's. Teeth are digging into Mizuki's shoulder and neck, blood leaking from the wound at a dangerous rate. One of the undead is latched on to her sister, having a feast, _and yet none of it is settling in her mind_.

Mizuki doesn't seem to be dead yet; her eyes, blurred with tears that won't stop falling, stare weakly up at her older sister. There's a beat of silence as the zombie takes another bite, this time from the bloodied wound on Mizuki's neck, before finally the younger raises her brows and stares at her with such a pitiful expression.

Her lips move slowly, the blood around her mouth mixing with her tears, and she manages a short, breathless, " _Mo_ —" Mizuki's plea dies as blood spills from her lips, her words choked back by a sob of pain. The zombie groans; Mizuki struggles to breathe as the blood begins to fill her lungs.

 _And there it is_.

* * *

 **Two Months**

He just knows this is going to make a for a funny story when he tells it to someone else. The odds of this happening are just too slim, and he'd been more than certain no one had been in this room in a long time—let alone the gas station itself.

Sitting atop the box of protein bars, written in what he assumes is chicken scrawl (he's not an expert on kanji, after all), is a note from someone he is more than certain he's never met; somehow, though, they just knew he had made an enemy out of them.

There's not really anything else he can do. He bends down and carefully picks up the note, and does his best to decipher the words on it. It's s tough process—all of twenty minutes go into it—and in the end he can only read certain words, gathering a very rough idea of what the note entails.

 _Dear—Thief –piece of—I find you and—you alive—my foot—ass and—bars myself—bitch._

He's not worried.

He glances left and right, peeks over his shoulder at the door to the office. No one has entered the station yet, from the sounds and looks of things; he's still just as hidden as this stash of protein bars sitting under the desk. Nice. He bends down and lifts the lid of the box, finding himself staring straight down at the collection of assorted protein bar brands.

Sweet treasure. Irreplaceable. _Beautiful_.

Until he sees something new on the wrappers of each and every one of them, marring the brand names and pictures like a hideous stain. More kanji—the same thing written over and over again.

 _Momiji_. Is that the angry protein bar person? They must be, but what kind of name is Momiji? What do they think they'll accomplish by putting their name all over the bars? An unspoken law of "finders keepers"? Sorry Momiji; you weren't the first to find the stash, and you won't be the last.

He ignores the names and pulls his messenger bag off of his shoulder, lifting the cover and moving around a few things for space. It's time to teach Momiji a lesson, while also replenish his own supplies to last the next month or so. He shoves his hand into the box violently, pulls out a large handful of bars, and then drops them into his bag. He repeats the motion a few more times, making sure to fill up all the free space, and soon enough more than half of the box's contents have been transferred to his ownership.

Shut the box; close the bag; shoulder it once more as he considers leaving a note for Momiji. He decides against it, mostly because he can hear the door to the gas station slide open and ding with someone's presence. He panics, searches frantically for somewhere to hide. The office is so small, and hiding under the desk is out of the question—not if he wants to be found by Momiji and find out what "my foot—ass" means.

In a rash moment of stupidity, he dives for one of the shelves behind the desk and pulls a blanket over himself, leaning somewhat behind a box and sitting his bag on his legs. He's going to be found for sure, he knows it; his effort can still be considered stupidly valiant though, and that's what matters. Two months, a life of crime in which many protein bars had to suffer—not a bad apocalypse record, if he says so himself.

Heavy, boot-clad feet hurry into the office, and it's only now he realises that he forgot to put the note back on the box. Damn it, now Momiji will know he's been here, and recently. _He doesn't want to find out what "my foot—ass" means_.

"Oh my God," he catches, spoken in Japanese. It's quite possibly the only full sentence he catches after that, as the person—assumed to be Momiji, who has rather feminine voice—launches into a rushed, angry rant he can't keep up with, let alone mentally translate. Much like the note, he can only make out a few choice words: " _Motherfucking—do not deserve—why—good person—ass lamp—THIEF—FUCKING EGG—KNIFE—BALLS—OH MY FUCKING GOD_."

He hears a pen furiously click and all of a sudden his stomach drops. Is Momiji going to mutilate him with a pen? Holy shit, is he about to find out what "my foot—ass" means? _Oh God please no_ —

The paper near the desk rustles loudly, and then it's slammed onto the desk itself. Momiji starts grumbling to herself, her ramblings accompanied by the aggressive scrawling of pen to paper. Is... Is Momiji just writing a note to him? Is he safe?

The paper is slammed onto the box when Momiji is done, and then those heavy boots are stomping out of the office. A moment later, the doors slide open and the ding sounds out. Momiji is gone.

He goes boneless, knocking over the box and dropping his bag from his legs. He can't decide who's more idiotic in this context as a quiet, high-pitched squeal wheezes out of his throat: Himself, who had chosen the most dumbass hiding place in the history of man; or Momiji, who was too focused on her protein bars to even see him.

* * *

 **There's a few things I missed in the beginning that I decided not to add in case I cluttered the chapter with my stuff. So I'll add it here and make a list of all the things.**

 **1) Entries are still open  
1.1) _No characters are chosen for certain yet_  
1.2) _I only have a list of characters, kept between me and my helpers, on who is most likely to get through_  
** **1.3)** **_Nothing is for certain unless I specifically say so_**

 **2) There is going to be an update in October, accompanying this one and completing the trio of setup chapters**

 **3) There are _three_ introductory characters, not one  
3.1) Two of them belong to helpers, but I will not name the helpers by their request  
3.2) These characters are currently known as Unnamed Girl, Momoko/Momi, and Unnamed Boy**

 **4) I have two others helping me plot, plan, keep track of character relationships and events, and making sure that I don't drop the story**

 **5) There is a countdown on my profile for when entries close, giving people a better time frame to work with. To save you from checking now, it is** November 10th, 10pm AEST (Australian Eastern Standard Time) **.**

 **6) You can make multiple characters, and if you've already submitted a character you are more than welcome to make another one if you want to**

 **7) There is a poll on my profile asking who of the three introductory characters you find most interesting. There's not really much purpose behind it, other than that I'm curious. It'll remain up until characters are chosen.  
**

 **8) I will announce any other information that comes up in the October chapter, so until then feel free to message me if you have any concerns or questions.**


	3. Then and Now P3

**Alrighty! New chapter for you guys, and it's the final introduction chapter before the story kicks off in November! There will be new info on what's going to happen at the end of the chapter, although there's not really much to say since I covered a lot in the last one oAo**

 **I hope you all enjoy the final look into the three introductory characters' two week/two month journeys! We've got another name to refer to Unknown Girl with too: Fay.**

* * *

 **Two Weeks**

He stamps his foot on the ground once, finally ready to voice how fed up he is with this group of bumbling idiots. It's been two weeks—two whole weeks and all they've done is bicker and make stupid decisions. They'd started with twelve, and now they're down to six; yet none of them, not even their "leader", learned from all six of those mistakes.

Three pairs of eyes land on him, and it's only now that he realises that he hasn't cared enough to learn their names. They've done nothing but rub him the wrong way and treat anyone who didn't wear the some form of uniform as a follower who didn't need to be spoken to unless necessary. They've just been looking out for their own little group, not caring about anyone who tagged along for the ride.

He's having none of that.

The only woman in the "leader" group—he immediately tacks on the nickname of Bird Beak—sneers at him down her nose, standing at her full height and puffing out her chest. "Is something wrong?" she demands. Her tone suggests that he better not answer with a problem of any kind if he knows what's good for him; unfortunately for her, his patience and temper is _leagues_ shorter than the hissy-fit she calls a threat.

"A little more than just 'something' is wrong," he starts, but is soon cut off by Bird Beak before he can even jump into his argument. _Rude_.

"Well we're handling it," she says, and _God_ is her voice the most condescending thing he's ever heard. Her eyes are wide and she looks about ready to slap him upside the head if he so much as tries to continue, and suddenly her stance becomes reminiscent of that of a soccer mom. Holy shit, how had he not seen it before? Bird Beak has the haircut and everything, and he's more than certain she's not from Japan—her Japanese is almost choppier than his is. "So why don't you just sit down on your little chair over there," she continues, pointing to the recliner near the TV, "and let the adults handle this. We know what we're doing."

Did he, a grown-ass nineteen-year-old in college, just get called a kid and talked down to by a _Helen_?

"You know what?" His tone is careful and calm, quiet; but he knows that Bird Beak is going to pick up the attitude he's got leaking through the cracks. "I'm going to stay right here and get involved in this little club you have going on. After all, you're the adults and you seem to know what you're doing, but it can't hurt to have _another opinion_ from _another adult_." He punctuates his sentence with a tight smile and eyes as equally wide as Bird Beak's.

The two stare at each other for a moment, and he's almost convinced she's about to release a war cry and straight up slam her head down onto his in retaliation. A turn of events that are much, _much_ less desirable occur, though, and he finds an accusing, meaty finger shoved in his face. He almost punches the man when the finger nearly crashes into his eye, his tight smile falling and replaced with a scowl.

"Listen here, you little shit," he starts. He immediately begins to ignore the man in favour of tacking on a nickname to his sweaty forehead and puffy red cheeks. He knows he has a good one sitting there somewhere, but the most immediate one he can think of is Anti-Santa. It'll do.

" _Actually_ ," he cuts in, yelling just a little louder than Anti-Santa is. "How about you all stop and actually listen to us for once? You're not the only ones in the group—not unless you keep doing this little private PTA meeting every time someone gets fucked up or dies because _someone_ doesn't want to let go of the reigns." He looks pointedly at Anti-Santa, who has so far been calling the shots when it comes to location and fight or flight tactics.

The other two people in the group—a nice young girl named Ayumi and her brother, Akihiko—start to lean closer from their spots on the couch, interested in what he has to say to their "leaders". He doesn't know much about them, but he does know that they can speak better English than he can Japanese.

"First of all," he goes on, " _Linda_ , stop trying to pick a fight with someone because you can't stick to your tight schedule for once, and go get yourself a tall glass of wine like the aggressive wildcard you are."

Bird Beak gawks at him, offended and holding her hand dramatically to her chest as she looks to Anti-Santa and the other man for support. They're too busy sneering at him and looking about ready to take him outside to bust his kneecaps, though. Bird Beak finally lets out the throatiest offended sound she can muster, and whines, " _John_."

The third and final member of their private club—a tall, stocky man who looks like the most stereotypical gym buff he's ever seen—waves his hand at Bird Beak dismissively. It's a violent gesture, hardly having the placating effect that John thinks it does, and all Bird Beak can do is let out another offended sound and cross her arms angrily in front of her chest.

John's an intimidating man. He's proven on more than one occasion that he can pack a punch in a fight, and there's no doubt that he could snap anyone in the room like a twig. But this is too important a topic—if John won't see reason and actually listen, then the rest of this group stands no chance. The odds of him pulling rank for the sake of anyone other than Bird Beak and Anti-Santa are slim, though; they flock to him and beg him for protection, and only ever offer solutions that will help himself. He's not an idiot—he knows that John revels in the attention as much as the next schmuck. Some part of him just hopes that the man will see reason.

John huffs. He pushes past Anti-Santa and trains a steely gaze on the young man. Bold brown eyes bore into a pair of defiant grey; nothing but silence is exchanged between them. He and John stand at nearly the same height—neither is able to tower over the other and make themself the dominant male in this argument, evenly matched in physique and anger.

"He needs to leave," Bird Beak insists. Ayumi and Akihiko shift uncomfortably on the couch, not wanting to bear witness to the seventh mistake these dictators would make. He can't blame them; _he's_ probably going be that seventh mistake.

" _He_ is not done educating everyone on the dangers of being a dumbass," he counters. The restraint he'd kept is beginning to slip, sarcasm and spite lacing his words as once again Bird Beak makes an offended sound.

John huffs again. Finally, after so long of just _staring_ , the man decides to speak up and make his call. "You need to leave," he commands. The order is quiet and low, with a short waver that suggests it won't stay as calm as it already is if he doesn't hightail it out of the house.

This is fine. He doesn't really care anyway. In fact, he stopped caring a while ago—shortly after the third mistake, now that he thinks about it. If they want him to leave, then why should he bother to fight back against their decision? He doesn't want to die because of their mistakes! He huffs back at John, fists clenched tightly by his sides, and he growls out a short, " _Fine_."

The moments leading up to him leaving are filled with countless critiques. "If you three didn't have your own little group of privacy," he growls, shoving his things into his bag, "then _maybe_ we'd still be at twelve people in the group. _Maybe_ if you weren't so insistent on being 'survival experts' and swallowed some pride, we wouldn't be right on death's doorstep. I mean, _come on_ ; as soon as I leave, I guarantee that your combined pigheadedness will get someone killed—and if it's one of you three, I'm honestly going to laugh and spit on your grave while singing 'I told you so' to the tune of the American national anthem."

They all ignore him in favour of "planning" their next action—Anti-Santa suggesting that remaining at the house until their now unwelcome guest is long gone, while Bird Beak lets out the most annoying hums of agreement he's ever heard. He glares daggers at them, only making eye contact with Anti-Santa (who is quick to sneer at him with exaggerated superiority); once his final visual message to them has been sent, he turns to Ayumi and Akihiko.

"Sorry I couldn't stay around and keep them from fucking up again," he says quietly. Ayumi waves a hand at him, smiling nervously.

"It's fine. We'll leave soon."

"Good. Stay safe—and don't let them bully you."

Ayumi nods, that uneasy smile still on her face, and glances between the group and him. Something's eating at her and it seems Akihiko—who is watching him with the most caution he's ever seen since joining this group—is bothered by the same thought going through his sister's mind. He doesn't have time to stay and find out what it is; John will most likely suplex him out the living room window if he doesn't skedaddle.

He shoulders his bag and sighs to himself; he leaves through the front door and breaks into a sprint. If he moves fast enough Ayumi and Akihiko can leave the area before it becomes infested or worse.

A gunshot rings out when he makes it to two blocks. A shrill scream, sounding so similar to Bird Beak, follows; soon after, there's another gunshot. He tries his best to think of the best case scenario: Ayumi and Akihiko decided to open fire on the trio; Ayumi and Akihiko ran off just before some undead were discovered in some hidden attic or something. Hell, maybe it wasn't even the group to begin with.

They're all rough stretches—only two gunshots, but three people to shoot?—but they're better than the alternatives: John opening fire on Ayumi and Akihiko, or the siblings themselves deciding to end it once and for all on their own.

He pushes the thought from his mind and continues to run, forcing himself to forget their names before the oncoming guilt settled in his gut.

* * *

 **Two Months**

Things have gotten quiet lately. There aren't as many undead hanging around the area, the gangs have kept to their underground hideouts, and hardly anyone is around to give her any trouble in recent weeks. She's actually had time to do things that running and fighting have prevented her from finishing. (She still puts them off, though; this quiet is better suited for recreating normalcy and calming herself down, washing her burns for the new day.)

She's not sure how she found it, but lo and behold she stands in the midst of an abandoned playground that has no business looking as ominous as it does. Paint has chipped away from the mural on the rock climbing wall (which she is amazed to be taller than), and blood covers almost every plastic slide on the playground. It's like a castle that played the part of battlefield.

At the thought of comparing it to a castle, an immature thought passes through her. She unbuckles her bag and drops it to the ground unceremoniously, and then dumps her sledge hammer beside it. She lowers the bandana covering her mouth and nose; she inhales deeply, cautiously checks that her eye patch is still in place, and then takes a determined step forward. She'll count this as part of her exercise today—scale a playground and declare herself king of the castle, and then finish up with a few pull ups at the monkey bars. It's a short climb, but navigating her way through the cramped sections of the playground (especially when some of the blood makes her slip and almost fall down again) proves to be a challenge. No matter how small she is compared to other people her age, she's still a giant compared to the children that would play pretend in these very tunnels and tube slides.

It takes a good few minutes of tumbling and stumbling through the short climb, but she eventually makes it to the top level (and then decides to go higher, scaling the worn out plastic roof) and declares the playground to be the Land of Peace and Quiet. A soft breeze follows the declaration; it helps to take away from the smell of blood she's now coated in. The skin around her right eye itches as the wind hits it softly and she immediately sighs to herself, annoyed that she can't even enjoy a simple breeze because of her burns. She _is_ due to wash it at some point, though; the blood she'd fallen in and slipped on can't have missed the sensitive area.

She's about to climb down again and retrieve a new eye patch from her bag, but stops dead in her tracks when she sees someone jogging towards the playground with their handgun raised—pointing at her. She holds her breath and steels herself to jump down if he tries to shoot, praying that she manages to escape this one.

He opens the gate and shuts it behind him as he makes his way to her bag. He'd better not be thinking of stealing from her—there will be a world of hurt if he does. He unzips it and rummages through, constantly glancing back up at her to make sure she isn't moving or getting ready to attack. The minutes that follow are filled with bated breaths and a hammering heart in her chest; she can do nothing but watch as he searches through her things—practically throws her mask onto the wood chips in the rudest way possible—and wait until his guard falls, even a little.

He scowls and throws the bag to the ground in a similar fashion to her mask, swearing under his breath. She swears she catches the mutter of, " _Merde!_ " Maybe she can reason with him, if he just said what she thinks he did.

"Um," she starts, and immediately he straightens up and fixes his aim on her. How comforting. "P- _Parlez-vous français?_ "

He falters in his aim, shocked at her sentence. After a moment of consideration, he replies, " _Oui, français. Faire tu?_ "

She's never felt this much stress in her life as she rapidly tries to translate in her mind. As he waits for her answer, she finds herself muttering his phrases and hurriedly matching them up to English. "Uh— _Non_ , _seulement en peu_."

The gun is lowered and he sighs deeply, frustrated and rolling his shoulders. He runs a hand over his shaved head, rubbing some of the dark fuzz she can make out from her spot above. He must've been hoping that she is fluent, which means he must need something—he needs to know something vital for himself. She can definitely help, but only if she can find the adequate words to explain and actually get down without being shot.

He turns away from her and goes to search her bag again, this time unzipping the smaller compartments. He's looking for _something_ , that's for sure. She clears her throat, trying again to see if he can say something she'll understand regarding his search. "Excuse me," she tries again. With an exaggerated eye roll, he looks back to her and zips up the compartment he'd finished searching. " _Je suis Fay_. _Parlez-vous Anglais?_ "

" _Émile_ ," he replies with a sigh. " _Et non_."

"God damn it." She throws her hands in the air and shakes her head in disbelief. Never has she felt more boxed in by a language barrier than now, where she's speaking to a Frenchman in _Japan_ while being held at gunpoint and robbed. Émile just watches her with narrowed eyes, also in disbelief, and it's becoming more and more clear to her that he's just as fed up by this gap as she is. He sighs and puts his gun away, in the holster at his hip, and nods for her to come down.

It's a quicker climb down than it is up, although if she's honest it was more like a complete and utter mess of a tumble. Wood chips are in her hair and digging in to her burns, and she hisses just a little as she rubs her scraped hands on the knees of her trousers. He offers a hand to help her up, and she takes it without hesitation. Her knees ache as she stands at full height (which is at least four heads shorter than Émile); before anything can be done, she reaches for her mask and brushes away the wood chips and dust. She fiddles with it as Émile finishes his search in the bag, this time handing it politely to her and nodding in apology for how roughly he'd treated it.

There seems to be an internal debate going on for Émile as he watches her put her mask back in her bag and fish out a new eye patch. He lets out a small, "Oh," when she removes the current one, and immediately she feels self-conscious of the right side of her face. The moment the new eye patch is on, she pulls the mask back out and puts it on—at least now he won't see the scar or her positively pitiful look.

She finishes up zipping her bag, which is when he decides to speak up and make his intentions known. " _Chemin sans danger?_ " he asks uncertainly. It takes her a moment to figure out what he means, until finally it clicks. He wants to know which way is safe to go.

She holds up a finger and reaches into her shirt, pulling the small, folded up map out of her bra. Émile makes what has to be the most disgusted sound she's ever heard and practically sobs out an insult to himself as he sinks to his knees and stares at the map in disbelief. So this was what he was looking for? She pats him on the shoulder and chuckles; he lets out a defeated squeak in response.

As soon as the map is unfolded, she searches for the park they're in and points to the two of them, and then aims her finger to the park's name. "Us," she says.

Émile nods. She fishes her marker out of her jacket pocket, flicks off the cap, and begins to cross off areas around the park. " _Danger_ ," she says with each one. After marking all of the places she knows of that are dangerous, she nudges Émile's arm and begins to circle names of locations. " _Sans danger_ ," she tells him for these. He nods with each one, humming.

Finally, she begins to draw lines up the streets and mumbles, " _Chemin sans danger_."

"Ah," Émile breathes; he's got an enlightened expression on his face, almost as though he'd never considered some of the streets she'd just marked as safe. He nods and stares at the map for a moment longer.

At this rate, he's not going to remember all the safe ways and spots. She doesn't have plans to move around much in this area—probably crash at a small house with easy escape routes. She clears her throat and catches his attention, and once he gives her a curious glance she folds up the map and shoves to his chest. Émile looks a little uncertain, which is a surprise considering he'd been ready to shoot her earlier over a map. She simply waves for him to take it, and then points to herself and gives him a thumbs up.

He gives her a hesitant, " _Merci beaucoup_."

She replies with a confident, " _Pas de problème_."

Émile gratefully takes the map from her and bids her farewell, saying a phrase she's not sure she entirely understands. Possibly something to do with luck? Who knows. She just waves goodbye to him and watches as he follows the map onto the next street, and then disappears entirely from view.

* * *

 **Okay what to cover...**

 **1) The characters that are chosen will be put on a forum called "Sanctuary SYOC Forum", mostly becaue I want to drop the habit of making the first chapter the list of characters.  
1.2) Only certain information about these characters will be released, mostly so _everyone_ can learn about them at the same pace as the characters in the fic, as well as so people can have a rough idea of what the cast will be like without spoiling much.  
1.3) [EDIT - 10/16] The forum will be made during the next few days, but the accepted characters will be added on November 10th, 10pm AEDT  
**

 **2) This is going to be longer than my usual cop-out of 20-24 chapters, as I hope to build on characters as much as possible and make as many plot points/areas of growth as possible.**

 **3) The time for the submission close has changed due to the fact that I forgot when daylight savings began, so it is now 10pm AE _D_ T. For clarification, that's a whole extra hour it'll be open.**

 **And as far as I know, that's it. Reviews are appreciated as I'd love to know if this looks interesting or stuff. I just wanna hear your opinion in general tbh oAo Otherwise, yeah, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'll see you next month!**


	4. Dog Days P1

**Oh boy did I scream a lot when I started writing this three weeks ago.**

 **So the short version of my longass "it's funny bc I never intended for this" story is that I had been aiming to do more than 3k words and instead shoot for 5k as a treat for this fic, and instead _wrote a chapter that I never technically finished which, last I checked, reached about 13.5k words that I had to split._ I tried splitting it in two, and in doing so I had about two complete chapters, plus the beginning for a third? Boy did that work out nice and neat and _thank God I wrote enough parts that could easily signify the end of a chapter_.**

 **Okay so, not much happening in this chapter except for the introductions of two people, mostly because one character's scene (Rebecca) went on for like 12k words and growing, and this arc (Dog Days) will last for roughlyyyyy... six parts? Depends on stuff.**

 **I ALSO HAVE NEWS and it'll be shared at the end of the chapter! There were a few people I haven't gotten to in regards to this so don't scrap your OCs yet if you didn't submit before the deadline!**

 **(I'm just so hype I literally set an alarm and waited for 10PM to happen I hope you guys all like it!)**

 **Short warning for the second half of the chapter (which I'll repeat in the next chapter) regarding I guess violence and gore. I mean, it's a zombie apocalypse fic and the rating is for sure going to climb to M in later chapters but yeah, just a lil warning for that one in case it's not your jam oAo**

* * *

He has to admit, it's not the weirdest thing he's done since the apocalypse began; there's nothing really _bad_ about what he's doing, either. The two have agreed to not gamble their supplies, being short enough as it is with what they have, and instead have been playing for fun for the last hour. It's probably one of the calmer moments that have graced Jackson Saito since Jasmine—may she rest in peace—had passed.

They don't know each other's names, only as features that stick out to the other. For Jack, the man dealing the cards is known as "Cowboy", for his red novelty cowboy hat; for Cowboy, Jack is known as "Gardener"—presumably for the jasmine flowers tattooed around his right forearm. They don't mind this arrangement. For all they know, one of them will be dead in a week's time; the two doubt they'll run into each other again, and even if they did then it would be better to be recognised by a nickname rather than expose their identities to others. In this world of fake names and deranged killers, accompanied by the ever evolving undead, there's only so much room for trust and faith in a group of people.

"Alright Gardener," he says. Two cards are before him—a Jack of spades and an Ace of diamonds—just as two cards—a six of clubs and a facedown card—sit before Cowboy. "What do you say?"

It hadn't been Jack's idea to play Blackjack, given that he'd never played it before in his life, but Cowboy seemed eager to teach him and walk him through the rules. Aces had been agreed as equal to one value, as opposed to either one or eleven, for the sake of simplicity; whoever comes closer to twenty-one at the end of their turn is the winner, or wins by default if the other goes over twenty-one. He's lost track of how many rounds have passed, but he's gotten the hang of dealing the cards without any trouble. Still nothing compared to solitaire, though.

He hums thoughtfully as he glances at his totalled eleven and Cowboy's six; he's lost the past few rounds because he'd gotten greedy; he runs the chance of hitting the remaining three aces and then botching it all with a card higher than seven. There's no harm in seeing how far he goes, though.

"Hit me," he says. Cowboy flicks a card to him, landing just on top of the Ace's diamond image. An eight of hearts. _Nineteen_.

He's not going to risk it. He doesn't want to make this his ninth consecutive loss, and decides to stand. Cowboy nods in approval, humming just as thoughtfully at his cards. He flips the facedown card, revealing a two of diamonds, and bringing his total to eight. Before he can deal himself another card, Jack asks, "Hey, Cowboy, you got a cigarette?"

Cowboy barely even looks up from his cards as his finger plays with the corner of the top of the deck. "Win this round and I'll lend you one," he states simply, and Jack can't help but sigh in exasperation. Cowboy lays down the card at the top of the deck—six of spades. Fourteen. Cowboy waggles his eyebrows at Jack and sets down another card, leaving it facedown.

"Tell you what," Cowboy says, earning Jack's attention as he looks away from the facedown card. Cowboy reaches for the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a full packet of cigarettes. "You win this round, I'll give you the whole pack."

A tempting offer. "And if I lose?"

Cowboy shrugs and lets out a long " _pshfft_ " sound. "Fuck, I dunno. I figured this was a good incentive to quit smokin'. Never even thought of what I'd want from you, aside from the necklace." He points to the silver heart-shaped necklace, and then shrugs again. "Were we in a time where money counted, I'd probably pawn it. Now? It's only good for sentimental value."

 _Damn fucking right, it's sentimental_ , Jack thinks venomously.

"So...?"

"I don't want anything. It's a gamble for smokes, and nothing else."

Jack can agree with that, satisfied that Cowboy won't try to take the last remaining part of Jasmine and his mother away from him. He absent-mindedly raises a hand to the pendant, grasping it tightly in his hand as he nods to Cowboy. "I'll take that bet," he tells him.

With an amused chuckle, Cowboy looks back down to his cards. He flips the facedown card and Jack takes a moment to absorb just what the card is, trying to figure out whether or not this round is his. The card is the two of spades. _Ten_.

Jesus, Jack could've won this round if he'd taken the chance. He grips the necklace tighter as Cowboy gives him a knowing smile—like he's thinking the exact same thing as Jack. Jack isn't going to win this round, or the cigarettes.

"Well now," Cowboy coos. "I can't just stop at ten. Not when you're at nineteen."

Jack decides in this moment that he very much dislikes Blackjack. At least in solitaire, the cards don't mock him while he puts them in order. Cowboy pulls another card from the deck and sets it down, right on top of the two. It's the three of clubs. _Thirteen_. Cowboy barely hesitates to put down another, and Jack almost finds himself holding his breath as he registers the card: Queen of diamonds. _Twenty—_

 _Twenty-three_.

The two stare at the cards in disbelief, although Jack can't be sure as to why Cowboy is. Was he counting cards and messed up somewhere along the way? Has he been cheating and didn't anticipate the Queen popping up? Who knows.

Jack clears his throat and offers a weak smile. "Dealer bust?"

Cowboy sighs and chucks the packet of smokes to the younger, who catches the packet with one hand and immediately begins to look for his lighter. "Dealer bust," he agrees. Cowboy soon after confesses that he'd been counting cards in the last few rounds, finding Jack's frustration in losing to be amusing; he confesses further that he's not the best at it, but he sometimes gets it right when he concentrates—instead of getting distracted by gambling his cigarettes, that is.

He takes a drag of the cigarette and lays down on the pavement, exhaling as his eyes scan the clouds. The area they're in is quiet—they hadn't been expecting so little activity over the past few days, and the undead that they'd picked off prior to meeting had been the only signs of danger they'd seen. Jack knows he's spotted a few curtains close frantically, showing signs that people have been living in the area for a good few days and avoiding trouble as best they can.

"Y'know," Jack says after he takes another drag, speaking as the smoke rises from his lips. "You're an asshole."

Cowboy can only laugh at the statement. "Funny," he chuckles. "My wife told me the same thing just last week."

The dead wife. Jack's still amazed that Cowboy had opted to open that particular can of worms after a loss so fresh; he'd used the event to convince Jack to stop and play a card game with him in the middle of the street, barely expecting anything in return. The woman had apparently been attacked and left for dead in an alley while Cowboy had tried to find a safe shelter for them, left as a warning that they didn't want Cowboy and his wife coming their way.

Jack had offered him a quiet, "I know the feeling," when he'd confessed this; he doesn't regret staying and playing the game with him, not even after all the losses and initial uncertainty.

"That so?" he goes along. He can't keep the regret for his earlier statement out of his voice. "You must be a real piece of work. Was it the affectionate, 'You're an asshole', at least?"

Cowboy finishes shuffling the cards and puts them in the worn out packet, but doesn't cover them. He's probably hoping for another game—something different this time, though. "God, I hope so. Otherwise, I disappointed the most beautiful woman I've ever known in her moment of need." He bursts into laughter, beating his chest lightly.

"So, Gardener. Got any woes, yourself?" Cowboy pulls off his hat while Jack flicks the ash off of his cigarette. He spins it in his hands, barely looking at the younger. "You said you knew the feeling, yeah?"

Jack shrugs and takes in a deep breath, doing his best to push back the images of Jasmine—what he'd barely recognised to even _be_ Jasmine, had it not been for their mother's necklace. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath. Before Cowboy can suspect he won't get an answer, Jack simply tells him, "You're right about the necklace's sentimental value."

"Ah," is all Cowboy says in reply—and it seems to be all he needs to say. Jack's clipped tone and shaking hands, one holding the cigarette and the other grasping the pendant tightly once more, are all the older man needs to see how much Jack had lost since the undead had begun to rise.

"Welp." Cowboy puts his hat back on and slowly rises to his feet; he groans and rubs his knees as they crack and creak with the movement. "Gotta say, that was an interesting game of Blackjack."

Jack hums in agreement. "Brought a nice break from everything, at least."

"You're telling me." Cowboy dusts off the knees of his jeans and stretches his arms. Jack watches as the man shoulders his own bag and fixes his jacket. "Say, if we ever run into each other again, would you care for a rematch?"

He shrugs and puts out his cigarette carefully, preserving the half he hasn't finished. "Depends on the circumstances," he says. "I'm game, though."

Cowboy nods and hums in satisfaction. It seems Jack's answer is pleasing enough to the older man. "Guess I'll see you later, then," he decides, and this time Jack can pick up something else in the man's voice—regret? Discontentment? Anxiety? Something is hiding behind Cowboy's confident and relaxed stride, trying to break past the surface and let the world know what's running through his mind. Jack sits up and watches the man as he exhales the last of the smoke in his lungs; he pockets the half-finished cigarette and waits for Cowboy to do something— _anything_ that can let Jack in. He wouldn't mind travelling with the old man, if only because of their unspoken similarities, and it's been a long time since Jack has been able to get close to another person against a mutual threat. Hell, he probably wouldn't mind learning what Cowboy's actual name is.

(It's not a fair exchange, though; for all the trust that he could have in Cowboy, Jack still would refuse to introduce himself as anyone other than just Saito.)

He shakes his head and pulls himself to his feet, taking his eyes off of Cowboy as that red novelty hat disappears around the corner of the street. Jack needs to find a place to stay for the night; he can't let himself get hung up over a potential comrade slipping between the cracks. He turns on his heel and puts the playing cards in the pocket of his jeans, and then heads off in the opposite direction of Cowboy.

* * *

Consciousness fading in and out. No sign of light through her heavy eyelids. No sound other than the echoes of voices and the dim, distant strings of a violin. In the back of her mind, she hears a distorted echo of, " _Non, rien de rien_."

Everything prior to this moment is a blur—her head throbs at every attempt she makes to think further and further back, but even trying to remember what she was doing before she'd come to is a challenge. She knows who she is, at least on an existential level, but she can't remember much else. Think, think, think.

It echoes again, the woman's voice singing, " _Non, je ne regrette rien_."

The woman's voice sounds so familiar, as though she'd heard it countless times before. Does she know the singing woman? Is the woman looking for her? She can't hear a name being called. Maybe the woman doesn't know she's here—wherever "here" is.

Okay, baby steps. The woman moves on to the next line of her song, prompting her to try and focus on small details. Start with a name, a face, a feeling; anything will do.

She forces her eyes open, struggling past the waves of exhaustion that push against her. She'll see something that'll clue her in and no amount of pain can stop her. Her eyelids finally open enough for her to see; she's met with darkness and a feeling of claustrophobia, the area seeming too tight and too constricted despite being unseen. Her eyes begin to adjust to the darkness as the seconds pass.

The woman continues to sing, but her voice sounds more mechanical than before. How strange... She forces herself to ignore the woman, but the song she's singing sounds eerily familiar—like from a movie. What movie, though? She knows she's heard it before, when she was a kid, in some kind of weird animal movie. Something about sheep? No, no; not sheep. Chickens? Wait! It was a pig! The song the woman was singing was from a movie about a pig... Named Babe—?

— _Rebecca_. Her name is Rebecca. She's the eldest child in her family—the Sullivans? No, Sullivan doesn't sound right. Solomon! Rebecca Solomon, eldest child in the Solomon family!

She rolls onto her back and takes in a deep breath, and it's only now that she notices the burning pull of rope around her wrists. Her left arm aches and she can feel something sticky through her shirt and _oh God she's injured how the hell did she forget that elephant in the room_? She rolls over onto her other side in the hopes of alleviating the weight from her arm; the pain ceases, only by a fraction, and she's left enduring a painful throbbing in both her arm and temples. Her eyes adjust further to the darkness—enough to make out the shapes in the room and find the slivers of light through the cracks.

If she has to take a guess, she's quite possibly in a basement of sorts. The ground she's laying on is hard and cold, like rock resting on her bare skin, while the walls and roof are low and follow a pattern of layers; light peeking through certain layers, creaking under the weight of itself as the house shifts. Why is she in a basement, though? She doesn't recall knowing of any safe places to stay—although, given that her hands are bound behind her back and that she's laying in a basement with a splitting headache, she's probably the farthest away from "safe" that she's ever been. She does her best to throw herself into a sitting position, further irritating her headache, until finally she can sit up straight and get a better idea of where she is.

To her immediate right she can feel the presence of another person, but can hear no sign of life—no breathing, no movements, nothing. The only logical conclusion is that they must be dead. It's a shame—some help escaping would have been dandy—but she supposes it's something to expect after three whole months of living in an apocalyptic hell.

She can smell something metallic; everything in her is wishing that it's not what she thinks it is. The last thing she needs is for blood to get through her bandages and into her injured arm, running the risk of getting hepatitis or getting infected by the blood of the slain undead. The woman finishes singing her song, and soon the sounds of conversation become more apparent through the floorboards. A woman babbling in English, begging for mercy, and a man babbling just as much in Japanese. He's obsessed with something, the footsteps and sobbing coming from right above her; it takes her a moment to figure out just what's going on. She can hear choking and a struggle; the woman is struggling to breathe while the man is still babbling, and then everything is silent once more.

Uneasiness settles in her stomach. What is he doing to her? Is Rebecca going to be next? She holds her breath and waits anxiously as the man gets up and moves around, the floorboards creaking as he leaves the room and enters another. There's silence for a good few minutes; she wonders if he's forgotten her, having just left the house entirely. The thought gives her a sense of relief—but shortly after inspires a panic within her. If he's gone, and she's being kept down here, then does that mean the basement door is locked? What if she can't get her hands free in order to open the door?

The woman begins singing again, and it's only now that Rebecca can place why she sounds so mechanical—the scratch that came shortly before she began to sing again was the scratch of a phonograph needle hitting a record disk. No wonder she's heard the voice and the song before—it's an actual song sung by an actual singer.

Footsteps enter the room again, slower than before, and then the man begins to sing along with the woman. He finishes the opening lines and ceases his singing after, his voice soon replaced by a hard _thnk_ against the floorboards. If Rebecca isn't mistaken, it sounds like something bladed being wedged into wood; like a knife or an axe. Another _thnk_ sounds out, this time accompanied by a sickening crack that she can recognise as bone. After all this time, she's more than familiar with the sound of bones breaking under pressure.

The area in particular that he's hacking at is given a break, the man instead moving just a short distance to the right. Rebecca nearly flinches when she hears the bone break this time. She's still virtually clueless as to what he's doing, but given that the sounds are worryingly close to where the woman had been choked, she can only guess as to what has just transpired.

There's a dragging sound—like a body being pulled with very little effort—and the footsteps begin to approach where Rebecca is. She blinks a few times and searches in a panic for the basement door, only to find it when a light is switched on from the other side. Light peeks through the crack at the bottom of the door, and in that split second before it's opened she holds her breath and flops back down onto her back, rolling back to where she'd started and ignoring the pain in her arm. She shuts her eyes and prays to anyone listening that she successfully manages to play dead; her heartbeat practically picks up its pace once the door opens.

The record is much clearer than when she'd first heard it, as is the man's voice as he mutters something about a "job done". Rebecca lays as still as possible as he grunts and hauls the woman to the door; the moment he groans at some strained movement, though, is when she's shocked enough to actually cry out in panic. The body of the woman he'd just killed lands on her and the other body beside her, and the unsuspecting teen can do nothing but jump in surprise as the body hits her. Her eyes open before she can stop herself, the man very much aware that she's conscious now, and she finds herself staring down the stump that was the woman's left arm.

Rebecca tries to scoot away from the body, but the weight of the woman is too much for her to inch away from with her hands tied behind her back. The man begins to walk down the steps of the basement, gaze locked on Rebecca; he practically steps on the remains of the woman beside her in order to get to her, and then he's hauling her to her feet by her hair. Rebecca cries out in pain, her scalp aching to the point where she suspects that she may be bleeding. He drags her up the stairs and out the basement door, where he chucks her to the floor in order to shut the door behind them. Rebecca ignores the puddle of blood she finds herself face-first in, instead taking her chance to get back to her feet and run for the nearest exit. She can at least recognise that she's in a hall of sorts, with open doorways leading to different rooms that she could lock herself in and escape.

She stumbles to her feet and manages to make it to the first door, only to be tackled by the man and hauled off of her feet, carried into the kitchen seamlessly despite the struggle she puts up.

He mutters things in Japanese, almost too fast for her to catch, but she does recognise a few key phrases: "Damned blue hair. Extra work needed. Disrespectful."

 _What does her choice in hair dye have to do with his work?_

She's practically flung onto the tile floor of the kitchen, just next to a small bucket and a pile of towels. She can smell something powerful in the bucket—like some kind of cleaning chemical her mother used to use on the bathtub mixed with the sting of vinegar—and it almost makes her throw up on the spot. She does her best to get up again and run, but the man rolls her onto her side and sits on her waist, putting unwanted pressure on her left arm once more. Rebecca cries out in agony as he pulls on a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

" _Clean_ ," he mutters to himself. " _Blue. Clean. Brown_."

It's almost like a chant that soothes him, whilst also urging him to work faster; he grabs a fist full of her hair again and then plunges his gloved hand into the bucket, pulling a soaked sponge from it. Before she can even beg him to stop— _his grip is hurting her, she thinks her hair is about to be yanked out_ —he furiously scrubs at the hair in his fist, ignoring her grunts of pain and objections with each tug and polish.

The smell becomes almost too much to handle when he's done with the first fistful of hair, Rebecca brought to the point of gagging as the foul odour overpowers her senses. Her eyes water and she coughs uncontrollably, until finally it dawns on her why he's scrubbing so determinedly at her dyed hair, why he's so upset over how blue it is, _why he wants it to be clean_.

 _He's bleaching her hair_.

Every fibre of her being is crying out against his actions, her rationality plotting many, many scenarios as to why he'd even bother. Is he a killer who has run out of victims that fit his M.O.? Is he obsessed with making up girls so he can make them his idea of "pretty"? Rebecca thinks back to the armless body of the woman in the basement, and a new hypothesis emerges. Is he collecting body parts? Is he after her head? Her hair? _What does he want_?

The process of bleaching her hair is painful and rushed, almost as though he can't wait to be rid of the blue. She catches glimpses of the dye staining the floor with each instance he lifts her head for a better grip, and she can only let out pitiful sounds at the sight of it all. The weak, fading blue on the floor is enough for her to want to cry.

A quick flash of memory passes by her—an event from shortly before she'd lost consciousness. She was in a pharmacy, browsing the medicine aisles in the hopes that something had been left behind after three months of pilfering, when she'd happened upon the aisle of dye boxes. She'd barely noticed the other person enter the pharmacy as she looked for the shade of blue her hair was currently dyed, and it wasn't until she'd bagged it that things became fuzzy. Maybe that was where he'd found her—maybe that was where he'd knocked her unconscious and dragged her back to this house.

He adds the name "Mana" into his chants, and after a few more minutes of scrubbing he lets out a horrified sound. " _Brown_ ," he chants. " _Brown gone. Too strong. No brown_."

She can only guess as to what's happened as her head throbs with every movement he forces her to make: The homemade bleach he's concocted is too strong, and has not only gotten rid of her blue dye, but also bleached her natural, light brown hair. _Which must've been what he wanted all along_. She smiles to herself, relieved that his plan is foiled, and refuses to let herself think any further on her fate. Whatever he'd wanted to do, he can't do it now—not without bleaching her hair entirely and then dyeing it the brown he wants it to be. That's enough for her.

He drops her head carefully onto the tile floor, right on top of a towel he puts in place to soak up the blue dye. He stands and the pressure on her arm is gone, the pain still lingering, and as he mutters nonsense to himself he storms out of the room and goes off in search of something.

Before she can even guess as to what he's going to look for, she hears it again—the scratch of a phonograph needle, and then the trumpets and violins play. The woman's voice trills out with the opening line, followed by his footsteps coming back from the hall he'd disappeared into.

Rebecca is having none of this, deciding then and there that she needs to escape, or at least find a way to avoid the grisly fate he has planned for her. She takes in a deep breath, keeping the air in her lungs, and rolls onto her stomach. Her face is stuffed into the towel, and she's glad she'd taken that break in to hold—the smell of this concoction may very well be enough to knock her out, if she gets it up her nose. Eyes shut tightly to keep the soaked up liquid in the towel from getting in them, Rebecca releases her breath in the form of a long, drawn out grunt as she forces her legs up and leans on her shoulder; finally, she was able to bring her knees up under her, allowing her to get up into a sitting position. She pulls herself up as fast as she can and takes in another deep breath. Her hair clings to her neck and the mixture will most likely stain and drain the colour out of the collar of her flannel, but she doesn't care.

Just as he makes it back to the room, she's on her feet and ready to fight—but not in the traditional sense. Rebecca, with her hands tied behind her back and her hair soaked with a chemical mixture that could blind her if it so much as flicks into her eye, decides to fight back by getting rid of what he wants. The man stares at her in shock when he sees her standing, practically dropping the bottle of brown hair dye he had in his hand; he breaks into a sprint before she has time to say something witty, like, "Blue is the new black," but instead she's forced to kick the bucket of liquid in his direction and hope that he stops or at least slips on it. The liquid goes _everywhere_. There's hardly a spot on the tiles around the man that is free of it, and just as she'd hoped, he slips the moment his foot comes in contact with it.

It's the most ungraceful fall she's ever seen—and she's fallen down enough times to make that judgement. His arms flail about everywhere and his eyes bugle in surprise, making him look frog-eyed as a panicked squawk crawls out of his throat. It's over almost too quickly when he finally lands on his back, the sickening crunch of his spine filling the silence that his silence screech had once occupied. She stands there for a moment, dumbfounded and cautious, as he lays there. He won't move—his chest isn't rising and falling with the inhale and exhales he should be making—and she swears she sees a little bit of red seeping out from under his head.

Did... Did she just kill him?

There's no time to dawdle on the matter; he isn't moving, he's not blinking, and he's not breathing. If he isn't paralysed, he's probably dead. Paralysed is good. Dead is better. Move on. She remembers that breathing is a thing she needs to do and once again takes in a deep breath, before finally dashing back down the hall to silence that infernal phonograph. It takes a moment of searching before she finally finds it in a bedroom that has clearly been unused for some time—the walls and curtains a rather soft, pastel shade of pink while the bed and furniture are an unmarked white lined with an equally soft pink.

This is very clearly a young girl's room, she thinks, or perhaps the room of an older boy who sought the need to break down gender stereotypes. Four for you, potential situation person; way to take strides against society's norms. She spots the phonograph in the corner of the room, next to a porcelain lamp with a depiction of an angel as the base. Rebecca wastes no time delivering a swift roundhouse kick to the device, damn near cutting the ankle of her jeans on the needle and practically shattering the record as it crashes to the ground. A satisfying silence settles over the room, which quickly shifts into uncomfortable territory. She needs to get her bag, fast, and get her hands free so she can fix what this man had ruined.

The search for her bag doesn't last for very long—it's been shoved under the bed, along with a few other bags that quite possibly belonged to other girls he's taken in the past. It takes some manoeuvring with her feet to get it out, and even then unsheathing her sword is a challenge in itself. Just her luck, she manages to cut her index finger with the blade before she can even begin to cut the ropes, and she finds herself dismayed as the droplets of blood land on the perfectly clean carpet. Her hands are freed with ease—the blade is still sharp despite being so damn old. Those people at the museum really know how to maintain their ancient weaponry. Well. _Knew_.

She tries to test her knowledge as she sheathes the sword— _the wakizashi, crafted circa 1490_ —and uses what she remembers to her advantage. The more she knows, the more she can be confident in her ability to get out alive.

A medicine kit—filled with, if memory serves: Gauze, painkillers, rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, bandaids, and ointment. She's not far off the mark; all she'd forgotten was the needle and suture thread, as well as the various strengths of nicotine patches and methylphenidate pills. Wow, _another_ big one she'd forgotten with those last two.

A pocket knife—which, last she knew, wasn't in the bag to begin with. The man must've removed it from her pocket and put it in the bag himself, hoping to disarm her in case she fought back.

 _Jokes on him because she still managed to fight back_.

A small, worn-out rock—what even is the purpose of having this? Is it just something she found and kept in the event that it would come in handy? She's not going to be picky if that _is_ the case, but it still feels impractical to have the rock for no reason at all. Oh well; it'll be good to fiddle with when she's bored, at least.

That's it, amazingly. Just her sword, her medicine kit, and the pocket knife and rock. She doesn't carry much. After a little more searching, she finally finds what she _knows_ she'd put in there prior to today—the box of dye. Now we're talking.

Rebecca shoulders her bag and picks up her sword, standing as she reads over the contents of the box. Everything is difficult to make out—has she always been this bad at reading Japanese?—but in the end she decides to just do as she would normally do, dye from another country or no. She carries her things out of the room and makes sure to check the kitchen once more, finding the man in the very same spot she'd left him. She'd been right about seeing the possible blood under him, because he's now lying in a puddle of it and it's only growing in size. Rebecca leaves it alone, not wanting to touch him while her finger's cut— _another risk area to catch hepatitis_. Remembering her bleeding digit, she immediately sticks it into her mouth and sucks on the wound, licking any blood from it and reluctantly swallowing more that wells up from the wound.

The bathroom is found at the stairway next to the basement, and soon after the door is locked behind her and the tap is running. She first and foremost removes the dirtied bandages around her arm, assessing the wound—which bleeds almost as much as her finger—before finally searching for a cloth to wash it with. She eventually settles for a towel hanging from the shower and chucks it into the sink, switching on the hot water and then dabbing the dampened towel onto her wound. It stings, both because of the heat and because of the fabric-to-flesh contact, but it needs to be done.

Half an hour, it takes; it's an agonizing process that she's certain will get her killed one day for being so time consuming. Tears are threatening to spill over, resting at the corners of her eyes. She chucks the towel back over the shower wall and leaves it to dry, and then starts on her next step—reapplying the bandage.

Of course, her finger requires a bandaid first; it's a quick and easy fix, what with how many are in her medicine kit, and before she can even begin to worry she's got two bandaids wrapped around the base of her finger. Good as new. Wasting no time after, she dives back into the medicine kit and fishes out a new strip of gauze. It's an arduous process, getting it wrapped securely around the wound, but her efforts soon prove fruitful.

With that out of the way, she can safely do what she feels _has_ to be done: Dye her hair blue again.

As reluctant as Rebecca is to leave herself open, she knows it must be done. Rebecca turns for the mirror—takes a moment to gawk at her hair, which is a hideous combination of blue, dirty blonde, and light brown—and begins to take off her clothes. She has to get the chemicals out of her hair in order for this to work, and it can't hurt to take this time to shower for the first time in weeks. She throws all of the clothes in a corner, away from the shower mat and the possible splash zone, and then cautiously enters the shower. It's a well-maintained, closed-in space; the glass walls are about her height, with the door a few heads shorter to allow space to open; if she has to take a guess, it's one of those square-shaped, four-by-four feet showers you see in apartments. Not unlike the one at her dad's house, if only a little smaller.

The water from the showerhead is weak and barely does the job of rinsing the blood and chemicals from her, but a good deal of persistence goes a long way. By the end of the shower, she's feeling refreshed and clean for the first time in ages, and barely even takes note of how exhausted she still looks in the mirror. She thankfully finds a whole stash of clean towels in the cupboard below the sink, and promptly dries herself so she can put her clothes back on. With her hair wrapped up in the towel, she puts everything but her flannel back on, deciding that she can risk getting any excess dye dripping on her dark tee instead of the flannel shirt.

The moment her hair is dry enough is the moment she drapes the towel over her shoulders like a cape and begins to don the plastic gloves that come with the bottle and conditioner. She throws away the conditioner, as she believes she won't get another chance like this to even get near a shower, and sets to work mixing the dye in the bottle. Once ready, she sets to work applying it and threading it through her hair, making sure to get every spot she can see. There's a little bit leftover in the bottle (which she immediately applies to the brown roots) and the moment she sets it down, she takes a seat at the edge of the bath tub and _waits_.

Twenty minutes it all it takes—she knows at least the word for "minutes" on the box—and once again she jumps into the shower to rinse it. She emerges even more satisfied than before, her hair back to its brilliant blue state, and dries it off with the hairdryer and towel combined. Careful and cautious, barely able to hold in her excitement. Once she finishes this step, she admires her hair in the mirror and cards her fingers through it, pleased at just how _clean_ everything looks. Her clothes are still a little bloody, and there are spots on the collar of her flannel that had obviously come in contact with the chemical mixture, but it's still the first time in ages that she's felt good about herself.

Her smile falls and her hands still once she remembers the mess in the kitchen—she can't just leave everything as is, and there's a chance that there might be survivors in the basement who are afraid and starving. She breathes in deeply and rolls her shoulders, bringing herself to a calm, confident point, and makes her decision right then and there.

The dead girls need a grave. The living need food.

* * *

 **Okay so that's the chapter! Hope you guys enjoyed it!**

 **NOW FOR ANNOUNCEMENTS ANNOUNCEMENTS**

 **1) There were still some people who started characters but never managed to get time to finish, so I'm opening up submissions for another week before I send out questionnaires for the official cast. I repeat: _EXTRA WEEK TO SUBMIT CHARACTERS FOR THOSE WHO WEREN'T ABLE TO MEET THE DEADLINE_.**

 **2) I'm gonna have a lot more time to write this, so I should hopefully be able to stick to a bimonthly schedule, if not monthly. What helps is that I'm enrolling in a writing course that requires a hefty amount of writing, which means I can work on this during classes as well without sort of falling behind or anything.**

 **3) I can confirm only four things as of right now, upon looking at this cast: Rival groups, one very painful and emotional death, two ships sailing, and a longass plot/side plot material to keep these kids going.**

 **THAT'S IT THAT'S EVERYTHING**

 **As a side-announcement, _great big thank you to my helpers for everything they've contributed to the pre-written chapters and the help they've given me so far despite how much I complained about how long it took to get everything done_.**

 **You guys are fuckin' champions.**


	5. Dog Days P2

**Aight we're back with a new chapter! As you can see, we continue right off where we last saw Rebecca, and then we're introduced to one more character at the end!**

 **As promised, here's my somewhat short warning for this chapter: There's I guess some graphic stuff regarding dead bodies and implications and a discovery I won't spoil, so if that's not your jam then I'd recommend not reading past Rebecca opening the basement door.** **Although anything beyond that is pretty much the bulk of the chapter.**

 **Wow.**

 **But yeah! Hope you all enjoy the chapter, and all of the characters should be up on the forum before the end of today! I'll be sending out questionnaires for creators once all the charaters are up, and also idk starting a fun facts section/discussion area in the forum? Depends on how you guys wanna use it outside of references.**

* * *

Rebecca isn't entirely certain she'll find a shovel somewhere, much less that she can dig a grave to fit just one person, but she has to try. She raids his medicine cabinet before anything else, spotting it in the bathroom behind the towels, and almost lets out a pleased laugh when she finds what look to be methylphenidate pills. Either this guy needed them for medical reasons, or he took them for the same reason as she does. She grabs what remains—a box and one half-emptied sheet—and shoves it in her bag hurriedly, and then quickly moves on out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

Nothing has changed. He is still laying on the floor, dead and in a pool of blood, and there is no music coming from the bedroom. She supposes it's best to make sure she knows how many graves she has to dig, should she find a shovel, and makes a beeline for the basement; it's a good distraction from the wave of anxiety waiting to happen in the kitchen, and it's probably best that she gets anyone alive out of there before they have a panic attack. It takes her a while to find the lock to the door, which he'd sloppily clasped back in place when he'd retrieved her, and when she swings open the door she's met with a foul, decaying odour and absolute darkness. Had it smelt like that while she was in there? She doesn't remember wanting to vomit so readily upon waking up, like she's about to now upon smelling it. Maybe the shower and shampoo had made her forget the smell? Maybe it had been the chemicals?

Either way, it doesn't matter; she feels the wall for a light switch and bumps something bulb-shaped with a small knob sticking out. It must be the switch, she thinks—one of those bell-shaped ones that old houses have. How fitting that the basement have one. She fiddles with the knob and finally it flicks down, and the basement comes to life with light.

If Rebecca wasn't going to throw up earlier, she certainly is now—and she does, as she spins around and lets out a strangled yelp. The basement is small, like she had felt it to be, and the floor is almost covered with bodies; the only area free of a dead girl is the spot where she had most likely been laid. Each body is missing a crucial limb: The freshest is missing her arms, up to her shoulders; the one that had been next to Rebecca is missing her legs, right up to the middle of her thighs; a pile of arms and legs and a head must be missing her torso—why else would she had been stacked so meticulously in her own little corner?

She wipes her mouth clean with the hem of her flannel. There are no survivors in there; she was the last one—and, if she's correct in the pattern of missing limbs, the body that was to be headless. No wonder he'd been so obsessed with her hair colour, but the question remaining is _why?_ Why the obsession? Why the harvesting of various limbs? Is there something he used them for in another room? The only option she can think of, as farfetched as it is, is that he'd been trying to build a person—or rebuild, as the case of the clean bedroom may be. It hadn't been the only bedroom, she knows, which means he must've had someone with him at some point that he'd lost. If she could find photos, then maybe...

The door to the basement is left wide open as she begins her search for the shovel, which only takes a few moments with each once-over she gives the rooms in the area. She avoids the living room when she catches the scent of _something_ rotten in there; she is not willing to throw up again, and she does not want to have to take out her sword to fight it if it moves. The shovel leans against the washing machine in the laundry almost carelessly, as though put there at the last minute while the man was in a rush. He clearly hasn't intended to pick it up again—the blood along the edges of the shovel is dried and staining the metal, leaving a mess on the floor from its last use. It's been neglected for all the right reasons, she thinks, and it's about to be put to use _for good_.

She can remember counting four bodies as she'd turned to void her stomach, which means that there needs to be four graves to dig. The backyard is big enough, she thinks as she peers out the door of the kitchen (she'd made sure to cover her peripheral vision as she passed his body); there's enough space to make some makeshift graves, and enough time in the day to dig them up and then fill them once more. She sets to work at what the clock on the wall declares is ten in the morning, and promptly finishes her graves at the stroke of one. She's exhausted as she finishes up, lightheaded and heart pounding fast in her chest—this wound must be making her anaemic or something. Rebecca can't remember the last time she'd felt this exhausted before the outbreak, and she's only felt the weakness in her actions after a month of having the injury. It just bleeds so much; it never seems to want to heal.

Oh well, she thinks. The nicotine patches and methylphenidate are there to help her when this exhaustion hits her. She decides that now is as good a time as any to get her energy back with one of them, and fishes through her bag for the medicine kit in order to take one. Her throat is too dry for the methylphenidate—she's never been good at taking pills without water, anyway—and opts instead for a nicotine patch. She _thinks_ the one she grabs is the last of the twenty-four hour patches, but it's been a while since she's actually checked the labels and used the patches. She peels the patch from the seal and lifts her shirt, applying it to the skin on the left side of her ribcage. She can feel it take effect immediately, inhaling deeply and shivering just a little as she waits for her energy to return.

Five minutes pass—enough time for rest—and she pulls herself to her feet. Rebecca decides to start with the girl without a torso, carrying out her arms and legs before the head and laying them down carefully in the first grave. The holes aren't the deepest—certainly not the six feet that is required for a casket—but it's enough to cover the girls and make sure they aren't dug up again by the weather. She places the limbs and head where they should be, according to height, and covers her grave with the soil at the foot of it. She returns for the second girl—she must've been here for weeks, her body bloated and fluids leaking from her mouth and nose. Rebecca does her best not to burst one of the blisters coating her arms and face, but she's more than certain a number of them have torn open on her stomach as Rebecca lifts her and drags her out like the man had done to her. This one goes into her grave in a much less graceful way, practically dropped in by Rebecca as the weight becomes too much for her. She apologises to the body profusely, her gut swirling with guilt and shame over the disrespect she's paying the dead; the girl's dead eyes just stare blankly up at her, the fluid still dripping from her nose and mouth.

The second grave is covered and then she leaves to fetch the third, blanching at the pus and fluids covering the lower half of her shirt. The shower had done her well earlier, but now all of her effort is ruined. Oh well; at least her hair is blue again. She has no choice but to ignore how sticky and uncomfortable the shirt feels as she steps into the basement for the third body, which is missing her arms.

The freshest one, she thinks. Not even a day old, and still the woman looks as though she's been dead for a while. Rebecca reminds herself that it's been a good amount of hours as she tiptoes into the room, eyes glued to the purplish tint in the girl's skin—possibly having set in as the blood drained to the lowest area of her body, which from this angle looks to be her left side along her upper leg and waist. There's no doubt that rigor mortis has started to set in, or already has, which means moving her is going to be a bitch. It's a good thing she put on the nicotine patch, she thinks, but damn is the low after this going to hit her hard. She swallows the bile in her throat and kneels down next to the armless girl—no older than her, she looks!—and wraps her arms around her torso. It's difficult to lift her up gracefully, and if she does something wrong then all of the tightened muscles will just flop, leaving a sudden weight dragging Rebecca down. Her best option is just to pick the girl up, ignoring the exposed flesh stumps she has for arms, and carry her out of the basement like a husband carrying his bride over the threshold.

It's hard to tell what's worse—the flesh stump or the pus. Both are staining the hell out of her shirt and making her skin crawl in disgust, but she knows one isn't as bad as the other; it's all a matter of figuring out which. This isn't an internal monologue she is about to have, though. Not while she's still liable to drop the body in the middle of the kitchen and begin throwing up again.

She passes the man's body and she suddenly finds herself faced with the distinct smell of urine in the room, which makes her rush for the door faster. She's forgetting a lot today— _like the fact that dead bodies void their bowels after the muscles relax_. She knows it sure as hell isn't the body she's carrying, so it has to be the man. _This is gross_.

Rebecca places her in the grave and takes a moment to roll in the grass as she makes disgusted sounds. Why are dead bodies more gross than zombies who did she piss off to deserve this fate _what kind of fucked up asshole hacks apart women and doesn't bury the remains good God man your work is sloppy_.

She forces herself to finish with the third grave as she spits dirt out of her mouth, bidding the girl a peaceful rest as the final patch of dirt is shovelled on. She's almost done with the burials—all that's left is the last girl, whose face she never managed to see. From what she could make out, though, she seems to be unharmed. Dead, but _not_ hacked apart like the others. Maybe she wasn't what he was looking for?

The man is getting harder to ignore every time she comes in and out of the room, and she knows sooner or later she's going to have to grab the hose and water down the area in order to clean him up too. She can't just leave him here—he's human. _Well_ —he wasn't _bitten_ , that's for sure.

Yeah, she's really stretching her reasons to bury him and give him a funeral like the others.

She creates a mental list to go through as she stalks back to the basement. She shouldn't be doing this, she thinks; it's a bit late for the thought to hit her, but every rational part of her mind is becoming cynical and turning against her, disappointed and bitter. She barely knows these people—or _knew_ them, really—and even then, why would she consider giving her assailant a funeral like the others. His hands are far from clean, the victims in the basement evidence enough that he doesn't deserve recognition for even being alive.

For all she knows, though, the girls could be the same. The girl missing her legs could have been a crook who stole from those who needed supplies most; the girl missing her arms could have been a drug addict or something; hell, maybe the girl missing her torso killed innocent people in the past. They could have all been criminals of sorts, and his standards only reached them. Maybe he saw her looting as bad—and it's not the worst thing she's done!—and decided she was just like them. And for all she knows, _she is_! After all, what kind of person kills someone, and then takes their sweet time dyeing their hair while someone may still be alive and held captive? What kind of person steals pills and nicotine patches in order to keep herself awake when exhaustion hits her? Most pressingly so, what kind of sister prioritises all this above finding her own brother—

Oh God— _shit_ —Micah— _shit_ — _how did she forget Micah_!? Rebecca stumbles down the steps of the basement as the thought hits her like a bus, and all she can do is crawl on her hands and knees aimlessly as her breath begins to fall short. Her little brother—her best friend—is out there somewhere, on his own, and she still hasn't found him— _Jesus Christ_. Forget the damn bodies and the killer; _Micah is not by her side_. She rolls her wrist as she nears the last body, falling roughly onto her side. She can't calm down, can't regulate her breathing, and suddenly she feels light-headed again. She's fucked up—fucked up _bad_ —and she can just imagine the disappointment and concern in her mother's face if they ever reunited. _"How could you forget your little brother?"_ she'd weep. _"How could you leave behind the most important person to you?"_

That's the million-dollar question, too: How _could_ she just forget him? Granted, that temporary amnesia had her stumped, but prior to today? For crying out loud, worrying about what shade of dye she was going to steal? It's all so _petty_.

She doesn't even realise that her jagged breathing has slowly morphed into broken sobs; her face is wet with tears, her hands and feet shaking as every thought running through her mind contains varying degrees of hatred and disappointment in herself. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. How could she be so selfish when she has a responsibility to uphold? Strangled sounds tumble out of her throat as her hands fly to her face and cover her eyes— _she wants to be anywhere but here, she wants to be with Micah and her mother and be safe_. It's been three whole months since this hell started, and it's been showing no signs of ending; the police stations have stopped sending out mass texts, the power went out for almost a week last month (which had left those in the area in a hysterical state, competing for the best non-electrical resources they could find), and as far as she can tell, the zombies have gotten _smarter_. They don't wander around aimlessly and respond to sound anymore—hell, they _see_ you and actually travel in groups nowadays, learning and adapting like a common predator hunting an evolved prey.

Time becomes nothing to her as she lays there and sobs, curled up in a ball on the floor and venting her mental woes to the dead body near her. She wants nothing more than for this day to end, for _everything_ to end, and to just get a good night's rest for once whilst knowing that Micah is safe. She can barely even remember the sound of his own voice, desperately clinging to the image of him she'd last seen—panicked and uncertain, caught in the crowd and reaching determinedly for her—before their separation. Rebecca soon disregards how much time has passed entirely the moment the tears dry up, and she's left wiping her face habitually even after she feels the skin become raw and red with each movement. Her cheeks hurt and her head throbs once she sits up again, sickeningly similar to her awakening in the room.

Micah would never want her to leave someone behind, at least not in memory. These girls deserve a grave, criminals of their pasts or not, and this man at least deserves a more respectful resting place than in his own piss and blood, mixed in with cleaning chemicals on his kitchen floor. She steadies her breathing and eases herself to her feet again, and then resumes her collection of the fourth girl. She's the smallest of them all, hardly dressed for the winter season, and Rebecca idly wonders how long she'd been in the basement for. There are layers to her, sure, but there's nothing to suggest that she'd survived past a month before he got his hands on her. She turns the body on its side and she almost gives up on her resolve right then and there.

The most noticeable thing about this girl's body is just how decomposed the skin on her face and neck is. She hardly wants to see how much has festered and burst open _underneath_ the layers of her clothes, and refuses to so much as look back down at the hands—and their missing, if not barely-dangling, fingernails. It's a disgusting sight, and she almost pities her for how long she'd been kept in here. It isn't until she picks up the girl like she had the armless one that she notices what's missing from her. It's not something big and obvious like the others, but still makes her death much more of a waste compared to the others.

The half-lidded eyes that have sunken deep into her skull are missing, well, the eyes themselves. All she can see is deep, black pits of nothingness; almost as though the girl is empty, staring aimlessly at nothing as everything she was slowly drains away. Even without her eyes, Rebecca notes that she looks so dejected and hopeless, as though everything she lived for was taken from her the moment her eyes were.

She carries her through the kitchen, hardly bothering to ignore the man's presence, and this time it's different compared to the others. This girl, smaller than Rebecca herself, is everything she could have been. Rebecca had been ready to accept her time had come right then and there, knowing that struggling was hopeless as the man had scrubbed away at her hair; this girl must've had the same thought, realising she wasn't going to escape a man twice her size and muscle mass. Had Rebecca just stayed down and waited for him to return with the dye, she'd be in her situation right now—and had the girl fought back and tried to run in the event she could not overpower him, she would have most likely survived longer than Rebecca ever hopes to.

It's almost like looking in a fucked up mirror of who you could have been. A stark reminder that every action has a reaction, and that no two paths are ever the same.

Rebecca spends the most time laying this girl to rest in her grave, taking the time to lay her arms at her waist and join her hands at her stomach; she closes the girl's eyelids fully, hoping to avoid getting dirt in her skull, and actually takes a moment to offer her a spoken, "Rest in peace." Rebecca fills the grave with the last of the dirt, and then finally she allows herself time to rest before tackling the mess in the kitchen.

It's just too much sometimes. All these people keep dying or getting bitten, and still they haven't gone extinct or found a way to fight back. The situation is against them, all their preparation through zombie movies and games and comics having little to no effect whatsoever on half of humanity's survival. People either panicked and made rash decisions that ended badly, or they just plain didn't know what to do beyond aiming for the head.

Too much time has been spent in this house, she thinks. She needs to finish her funerals and get out of the house before something else goes wrong, and finally get back on track with finding Micah.

Rebecca decides to go through with her previous plan—however sarcastic it had been—and searches for a hose to take into the house. She finds a long one that's best suited for larger gardens (the exact opposite of his own, which is small and cramped for the flowers planted in it) and manages to drag it back to the kitchen and through the door without much trouble. He's right where she left him, still laying dead in that mess of fluids. She almost half expects him to just get up at any moment and start screaming, as though waking from a nightmare, but as far as she knows these past few hours have more than proven his status as a dead man.

She threads the nozzle of the hose through one of the gaps in his chairs and scoots it over to his side, leaving it to dangle just above him. If she turns the water on now, it'll just about hit his midriff and get rid of some of the mess. She doesn't want to get him too wet, though, or else moving him around will be more of a chore than the armless girl. She decides to forgo dousing him entirely and instead comes up with a new plan: Soak up the mess with towels. He's got plenty in his bathroom, and the ones he'd left here for her (or rather, her hair) have soaked up half of the chemicals as it is already.

She almost makes it to the stairs leading to the bathroom before the rotting smell from a room down the hall catches her attention again, and all she can do is sigh in exasperation. Of _course_ she forgot that as well. Confliction sets upon her and she stands rooted on the spot, clicking her tongue as she thinks further on this predicament. For all she knows, there is a fifth girl she needs to bury—and she barely has enough strength in her to dig another hole and carry another person over the grass and drop them into it, only to fill the hole again. As far as she knows, she only has enough energy in her to move the man to where she plans on dealing with him, and quite possibly move the fifth girl to a separate spot to deal with.

Hands flail wildly about and she lets out a hoot, fingers tangling in her hair as a smile crosses her. _An idea_.

Someone's going to be getting a Viking funeral.

Only there's no water. Or a boat. Or flaming arrow fired into the horizon to set the boat aflame. Also there's no Viking.

Cremation. Rebecca is going to cremate the fifth girl.

She turns on her heel and follows the source of the stench; it leads to what she can assume is a living room at first glance, much larger than the kitchen and bathroom and certainly with more room to move around. Rebecca is almost taken in by how neat everything is, reminding her of a home that stereotypical grandmothers lived in on those terrible sitcoms. The only thing that takes away from the illusion is the smell, as well as— _Holy fuck_!

In her best effort to stop herself from screaming, she releases a full body shudder and crashes into the doorway, air pushing past her lips as she tries her hardest to keep them sealed and creating a sound akin to air squealing out of a balloon. This has got to be _the_ biggest messed up thing she's seen so far—and she has both seen and done some messed up things up until now! At least now she can say she knows where those limbs are.

There's a chair propped up in the centre of the living room, right beside an easel and a portrait of a young girl whose resemblance to Rebecca is uncanny, right down to the freckles and sunburnt cheeks. On the chair sits... Well, it's _something_. She's not about to call it a person, though, for more than obvious reasons; on either side of the chair, laid out neatly and symmetrically, are the arms from the third girl, while sitting on the chair, stitched together sloppily with thread and staples, are the rest of the missing limbs. The torso and mid-thighs, significantly less rotten than the legs, are covered in a frilly pink sundress that's too blood-soaked to even be considered pink anymore. If she's not mistaken, the straps and upper-half of the dress resemble the one that the brown-eyed girl in the picture is wearing.

Rebecca stands on her tiptoes to try and see if there's anything else she can spot from her safe distance, and wouldn't she know it—she finds the eyes from the fourth girl sitting neatly on the lap of this life-sized Build-A-Girl.

This just proves she was right all along, though; he really had been trying to rebuild someone. And if the uncanny resemblance between her and the girl in the painting are anything to go by, Rebecca was most likely going to be the head—once her hazel eyes were gouged out, of course, and possibly replaced by the dark brown ones on the corpse's lap. How... _creative_?

Okay, no. Creative is not the word she wants. It is the farthest thing from the word she wants, actually. This is all too fucked up and she's going to regret literally everything she's about to do for this thing and its Victor Frankenstein. Rebecca makes a disgusted sound deep in her throat as she enters the room entirely and makes her way to the..." _girl_ " in the seat. Does she even consider this creation as a person? It's made from other people, and it never had any life prior to now. Maybe a doll? Yeah, doll feels a bit more appropriate than person.

She reluctantly lifts the doll from the chair and moves it to the couch, and she can feel some of the thread stitching come undone and snap apart as she does, leaving only the staples to hold the limbs together. She almost drops it right there and then, the scream of, " _No_ ," on her lips, but she perseveres. This is still technically all four girls buried outside, which means these arms, legs, eyes and torso deserve as much a funeral as they do.

She also refuses to leave this house without setting it on fire and ridding the world of it.

The doll is practically dropped onto the couch unceremoniously, and the arms are chucked loosely on either side of it. One of the eyes rolls off of the lap and onto the couch, but she refuses to pick it up and move it back. She is _done_ with touching anything squishy and close to the consistency of jelly. Rebecca stomps out of the room and back into the kitchen, only to remember that she needs more towels; she practically runs up and down the stairs to grab more and more towels, laying them out one at a time around the man's body and on the slippery tiles, until finally he's dry enough to drag by his feet into the living room.

He's heavier than he looks, and she falls on her ass a few times in her attempts to get him past the living room doorway. A trail of blood follows them as she manages to get him onto the carpet, and she's reluctant to actually try and lift him and put him on the couch with his creation. She sucks it up and does it, though; this twisted couple need to burn together, no matter what.

She's heaving her breaths each second as they come out deep and shallow. She hadn't planned on becoming this exhausted, even after she'd put on the nicotine patch (which she's beginning to suspect is not the extra strength one); before she resumes her work on the duo, she scurries back to the kitchen and searches through her medical kit, pulling out the half-finished sheet of tablets she'd stolen. She pops out two of them and sets them on a clean corner of the bench top; a quick search for a glass turns out fruitless, resulting in her taking a coffee mug instead, and she fills it halfway with water from the sink. She downs the water with the pills and lets herself rest for a moment, at least figure out how she's going to cremate these two monstrosities.

The household always contains flammable liquids and objects—it's like the biggest threat to your life, just living with a bunch of them in one room. Rebecca's eyes drift throughout the kitchen, scouring the floor, until she sees something that once more makes her arms fly about in excitement. The chemicals he'd used to bleach her hair— _something_ has to be flammable! Hell, it's probably a cocktail of death _and it's all in the towels on the floor_. Rebecca jumps up and down, morbidly giddy, and begins to collect the towels that she knows have soaked up his cleaning mixture. She carries them to the living room and wrings them out over his body and his doll, hoping that it's enough to do the job when she finally makes it to just one towel. They're moderately soaked, but not enough to properly burn. Then again, she doesn't know what it takes for a human body to burn without some kind of fuel to keep the fire going. Does the hair keep it alight? Oil from the skin?

She shrugs and sets aside the last damp towel—she'll need it for something else, later—and then leaves in search of other flammable things. Oranges, perfume, alcohol—any of them could work if she finds them.

Inside the pantry is where she hits the biggest stash of flammable items: Cooking oil on the middle shelf (three bottles of it, holy shit), a full glass bottle of vodka on the top shelf (the size of her face. Amazing), and a whole box of hand sanitizer on the bottom shelf. This guy must've really liked having his house clean and cooking.

She pulls them out one by one and sets them on the table, and then begins to spread the contents of each bottle (starting with the hand sanitizer) on the top floor. She makes sure to check the other bags under the bed in the room the phonograph had been in, finding a few things of use amongst all the junk the girls had kept with them. It seems all of them had run out of supplies, and each one only had one thing in their bag—probably from a supply run they'd made, which would've been interrupted by their killer. She leaves the room with a bar of lavender-scented soap and a screwdriver, making sure to coat the door itself in the sanitizer as well as the walls. She trails the sanitizer down the stairs and to the basement, and then just about runs out after she's done spreading it all over the floor and the walls. Rebecca packs the soap and screwdriver in her bag and moves on to the first bottle of cooking oil, which she uses to douse the hallway. The second bottle is dedicated to dedicated to the living room's contents, and then finally she finishes it all off by spreading the third bottle throughout the house.

The towel is no longer of use to her damp, at least not with all the chemicals on it, and she wrings it out over the doll in the hopes that it burns entirely with this extra addition of cleaning products. She searches the cupboards and drawers when she returns to the kitchen, finding a near-empty packet of matches, and puts them in her pocket for the moment. She grabs the hose from the chair, remembering that she has oil and sanitizer and cleaning products on her hands, and takes it into the backyard to properly wash it all off of her. She decides to take the extra precaution of dousing herself with the water to prevent from being set alight by accident; by the time she's done, she can feel the chill of the winter air cling to her skin as her wounded arm aches at the contact of cold water. Rebecca shakes herself off, still moderately soaked when she goes back into the house, and picks up her bag. She puts it on properly and rolls her shoulders at the feeling of the bag's weight, hardly remembering it to be so heavy.

She carries the towel and vodka out the front door, certain that she's done with her work, and shuts the door behind her. She walks quickly out of the front yard and practically drops her bag just a little way away from the fence, and takes a moment to gather her surroundings. She only finds one person, to her surprise; he's standing across the street, frozen mid-stride, and staring at her in surprise. He'd been expecting her as much as she had been expecting him, it seems. He casts a glance over at the house, eyes narrowing in thought, and all she can do is stand there in shock. What does she do now?

" _Ano, aoikami-san_ ," he calls out; his voice sounds younger than his appearance, she notes. Rebecca jumps and looks to him with wide eyes, waiting for him to say something as a follow-up. He waves his hand in a _come closer_ motion whilst adding, " _Chikai anmari_."

It takes her a moment to figure out what he's saying—"Hey, Miss Blue Hair," is more than obvious with how much Micah had called her that—and then she finally shuffles forward as she figures out what it is he's telling her: She's too close to the house, if she plans on throwing the soon-to-be Molotov at it. She comes to a stop at the middle of the road, dragging her bag with her, and then looks to him for approval. He nods, pleased by the distance she's put between her and the house.

Rebecca wastes no time uncapping the vodka and fishing the matches out of her pocket, twirling the towel and sticking one half of it down the neck of the bottle. She prays to anyone listening that her plan works and at the towel doesn't spontaneously combust upon contact with the flame; she ignites the match and takes a calming breath, and then hovers the flame just under the exposed end of the towel.

Before she can even let it come in contact with the flame, the man announces, " _Matte, matte_!" and scurries over to her side. He takes the Molotov from her and pushes the towel just a little further into the bottle, and then pulls it out to its previous length. With concentration on his face, he hands it back to her and nods again. Rebecca thanks him in English, almost forgetting what to say in Japanese, and his eyes go wide in surprise. He apparently had also not been expecting her to not know Japanese, it seems—or at least the word for "thank you".

She lights the towel successfully and blows the match out; she stands back up to her full height, taking the bottle with her, and takes careful aim at the house. The man sits down and watches with his legs crossed, sitting his back on his lap and leaning on it in anticipation. Mustering the last of her strength, Rebecca swings her arm at full force and throws the Molotov at the living room window, watching in awe as it smashes through. The house virtually lights up like a candle, the flames too tame, and she mentally berates herself when she realises why. She should've left the stove or the oven turned on and let the gas travel through the house—everything would burn quicker, that way!

What's done is done, though; the house is slowly burning and all of the girls have been buried. Now she can resume her search for Micah.

* * *

The two watch as the flames slowly engulf the house, occasionally glancing at the other when they think they're not looking. Light from the fire bathes them both as the afternoon sun begins to dip, and all he can find himself wondering is just what fresh hell she crawled out of in that house. She's covered in blood and soaking wet, dark circles around her eyes and teeth worrying at her bottom lip like she's just _expecting_ something to go wrong with her bonfire.

Today isn't something Hiroto would call a surprise, but it certainly is something he hadn't been expecting. This small suburb has been like a ghost town, save for the occasional house that had zombies trapped inside, and everything that Emi had requested for her shop has been found without much hassle from abandoned homes. He'd heard the screams hours earlier, but had decided not to investigate; it wasn't until the suburb had become suspiciously quiet that he'd decided to move on in the hopes of finding someone who not only needed his help, but could also help him.

But he had not been expecting this small girl, covered head to toe in blood that is apparently not hers and carrying a vodka bottle and a towel as she limped out of the house sopping wet. It's not the strangest sight, but it's also been a while since anything could count as such.

He should've expected her to not know Japanese, though—a lot of tourists got involved in the outbreak, and many of them had managed to make it a fair way with their pamphlets and maps and hiking supplies. Hiroto cannot for the life of him figure out where she got the sword from, though; it looks pretty old and fancy, but it's far from the decorative ones that some families had hanging from their walls. This one has age to it, like it's been around for a good few hundred years, and it's somehow in the hands of a timid girl who is at least three heads shorter than him and looking a little worse for wear. He can't let her looks fool him, though; he _did_ almost get shanked by a Lolita last week because he thought she was scared and alone. The fact that this blue-haired ball of freckles is covered in someone else's blood, holding an old samurai sword, and is admiring her own work as the house before them blazes could very well be a sign that she's more than meets the eye.

Caution may be his best bet with her.

It isn't long before the sun finally sets entirely, and the flames have spread to the garden as the roof begins to collapse. He glances back at her, hoping that maybe she'll be on her way and he can leave without worrying about her tailing him, but instead finds her rooted to the spot and clinging desperately to her backpack's straps and her sword. She's shaking violently, and her teeth have bitten deep enough into her bottom lip to break the skin. It takes him a moment to figure out what's wrong with her, until he spots her hair—still dripping from whatever she'd fallen into or covered herself in before she'd set the house ablaze.

Hiroto sighs _and he knows he's probably going to regret this_ _but he can't just do nothing, for God's sake_. He growls to himself and mutters a few curses under his breath, his mind torn between helping this girl and simply leaving; he eventually gives up and lazily drops his brown backpack to the ground, and unzips it in search of his jacket. It had been put away in the hopes that he would stumble upon a washing machine and clean it, but it seems it'll have to do in keeping her warm for now. She turns to him as he loudly rummages through the contents of his bag, shoving aside his journal and rock collection before he finds the maroon jacket entangled in the rope at the bottom of the bag.

The jacket is finally free and boy, does it stink. He hasn't really had a chance to wash it for a good three weeks, though, and he's more than certain that his sweater and jeans are in the same state. At least he can blame it on all the blood and decomposed flesh he's come in contact with.

He stands up and holds it out to her, and she immediately recoils with wide eyes as he does. She's being just as cautious as he is, he thinks, and it doesn't help that there's a bit of a language barrier between them. He'll find a way, though.

Hiroto clears his throat and points to the offering, and then nods to her own flannel shirt. It's bound to be the wettest of the clothes she's wearing, and will probably need as much a wash as this jacket will. "Switch? Trade?" he offers, uncertain if either of the words will get the message across. He only wants her to put on the dry jacket and pack away the flannel until it's dry, if only to prevent her from getting pneumonia or something.

She glances between him and the jacket a few times, bewildered, and then curiously tugs at her flannel. She seems to come to the same realisation as he had, and reluctantly nods. She carefully puts the sword onto the ground and her bag soon follows. She hesitates once more as she begins to pull off her flannel, and he can see why.

Hiroto practically jumps back a few steps when he sees the bandaged up arm and the blood seeping through the gauze, his mind immediately snapping to the possibility that she's been bitten at some point. The time of turning varies for some people—he's seen someone last a day without turning, believing themselves to be immune until a whole ten hours had passed—and he can't run the risk of this girl being in the same boat. She catches his accusing look (he wasn't even aware he'd been staring at her with one until the hurt, anxiety-riddled stare is trained on him) and drops the flannel in order to raises her hands in surrender. She shakes her head frantically and reaches for the bandages, but freezes when she sees just how much blood is on her without the flannel.

"How long?" he asks, and once again he prays she understands this much. It'd be a miracle if she's been carrying around a bite for more than a day; he'd probably even consider the possibility that _someone_ is immune to the effects of a bite, if that's the case.

The girl just babbles on the spot and she looks so close to tears, her voice wavering as she struggles to find the words. She finally manages to choke out a short, " _Not bitten_." The phrase is broken and mispronounced, but he can catch the drift of what she's saying—it's not a bite, and the fact that she knows the phrase despite being a tourist who knows little else says a lot about how often the topic has come up for her.

He takes in a deep breath and steps towards her, offering the jacket again.

"Okay," he says, nodding. "Not bitten."

* * *

 **Fun facts for this chapter:  
**

 **1) The stuff that happens with Rebecca in this chapter involves quite possibly the most research I've ever had to do so far for anything I've written.  
2) I'd been a little worried about how graphic the descriptions of the dead girls and the doll had been (which is why the rating after this shoots up to an M), but here's the gist of what was happening (mostly because I'm not sure it the implication was strong enough): The man killing the girls is trying to reconstruct the girl in the portrait in the living room, and Rebecca had been the very last piece he'd needed but his plans were interrupted by his bleach being too strong and Rebecca deciding "fuck this" and spilling it everywhere. I never made it clear if she was related to him or not, so I'll leave it up to you guys over whether or not Mana (the name he dropped in the last chapter) was family or not to him.**

 **Other news! I'm adding two things to my profile for people to use as a reference/have a gander at, and they're chapter progress reports and a poll regarding extra stuff. What kind of extra stuff? I dunno, check it out and see, I can't list it all in one go ;D; But yeah, if you're interested in knowing what's up, that stuff'll be on the profile.**


	6. Dog Days P3

**Ayyyyy back with a new chapter and some more characters to introduce! I'm in a bit of a rush this morning so there's not really much for me to add on here oAo Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

 **THORS_BIRB:** okay so new plan  
 **ObligatoryDogeMeme:** Can we maybe not?  
 **THORS_BIRB:** himura pls i am stuck behind this car and i dont want to face this horde alone  
 **THORS_BIRB:** humour me  
 **SpedSnek:** Ill humour you  
 **THORS_BIRB:** no  
 **SpedSnek:** Mama birb pls i can make you proud and listen for once  
 **THORS_BIRB:** you tried to steal my fucking water bottle  
 **ObligatoryDogeMeme:** On your left

Tyri's head snaps up at the new message; she glances to her left and spots the zombie out of the corner of her eye. Carefully, she shuffles towards the far end of the car and moves closer to the apartment building fire escape.

 **THORS_BIRB:** oh my god ohm y god omg  
 **SpedSnek:** Chill the fuck out youve got this  
 **THORS_BIRB:** dont tell me what to do  
 **THORS_BIRB:** also thank  
 **THORS_BIRB:** so like i need a plan to get up this building what have you guys got for me

She leans her arms on her knees and watches the phone for any more messages. The other two members of their "group" (if she could call the trio of misfits united for the day that) are waiting for her at the top of the house across the street, watching in anticipation as zombies pass and pause at the car she's hiding behind.

Every part of her is seething over the fact that she wouldn't be in this situation if she hadn't met either of them. She knows where the safe places are, and can handle herself in a fight. But no, Saya just _had_ to raid her bag this morning while she was asleep and try to fight her one-on-one for the loot; Tangles's dog just _had_ to appear right then and there and break them up out of fear her barks will attract trouble; Tangles himself just _had_ to appear shortly after, wanting to stay with them in the hopes of preventing another fight from breaking out.

They're not the most reliable people, but they do have their perks, she will admit. Amaya, Tangles's perky red Shiba Inu, has proven herself to be an immediate relaxant for the group in regards to tension and fighting. After all, Saya had been practically overjoyed when the dog had appeared, and Tyri isn't about to deny her weakness for animals after all this time. Saya herself also seems to have her uses, knowing the best ways to get onto a building surrounded by undead without alerting them to her presence. Tangles... Is nice? Tyri hasn't really seen much of him in action outside of being the owner of the most adorable dog in existence, and making the bold decision to give said dog her own miniature backpack.

 **SpedSnek:** Okay so i have a plan  
 **SpedSnek:** And its a good plan srsly youre gonna love it  
 **THORS_BIRB:** istg momiji if this ends in tears  
 **ObligatoryDogeMeme:** If this all goes to shit just know that I enjoyed your company and that Amaya and I will remember you both and we'll be sure to come back to give you a grave  
 **SpedSnek:** WOW  
 **THORS_BIRB:** understandable tho  
 **SpedSnek:** (ノ ⊙ ◇ ⊙)ノ。°。 suck my ass himura you nonbeliever *

Tyri scowls and rolls her eye, waiting for Saya to just get on with her plan. Anything is better than nothing, after all. She checks to see if the zombie from her right is still by the end of the car— _which it is_ —and carefully rises and turns to face the house that the duo and dog are sitting on the roof of. She just barely catches sight of Tangles's panicked look as his hands rake through his hair, knocking off his beanie, and his wide eyes latch onto Saya; Tyri almost doesn't realise why, until she sees Saya taking careful aim at the zombie on the other end of the car.

Before she even knows what's going on, Saya's throwing the knife and watching triumphantly as it soars through the air. Tyri almost has a shred of hope for the knife's destination, until she hears a crash from the other side of the car—the driver side window—followed by an obnoxiously loud car alarm. The knife, instead of hitting and killing the zombie closest to her, has instead crashed into the car and set off its alarm.

Tyri practically screams in horror and undying rage and jumps to her feet with determination while Saya, at the same time, also lets out a horrified scream. The zombies are all aware of where Tyri is, and they're more than happy to pursue in the hopes of getting a bite out of her. She swears under her breath in Welsh, English, Japanese as they come for her one by one, reaching out for her as she desperately grasps her sledge hammer in order to strike. She swings without thinking towards her blind spot as she hears footsteps scuffle along the pavement, and all she hears is bones shattering and a zombie knocked onto its back as its fallen comrade crashes into it. Tyri's still screaming as she turns to her left, and it quickly turns into a violent battle cry as she throws herself towards a zombie and smashes the head of the sledge hammer into its torso like a battering ram. It stumbles back, crashing into another zombie, and she swings the hammer at their aligned heads like a baseball bat. The first zombie's head caves in, while the other's flies off entirely and leaves behind a puddle of blood and rotten skin that splashes to the ground all at once.

Tangles takes now to leap from the roof of the house and tumble into the garden, vaulting over the gate and pulling his truncheon from the loop of his jeans. He sets to work handling the undead in a method Tyri can only describe as crowd control, viciously beating them over the head from behind and frequently reaching for the knife sheathed at his thigh. He takes down quite a number of them with absolute silence, drawing barely any blood (aside from the few that actually turn to face him, only to be pummelled in the nose); he almost makes his way to Tyri, whose own body count is starting to pile up around her. The car alarm suddenly shuts off, and all that's left is the sound of Saya's panicked shouting and Tyri's battle cries, accompanied by the sounds of groans and shuffling.

There's a ringing in her ears as she keeps hitting the undead, most likely from having that loud alarm blaring right next to her for a full ten minutes, but it doesn't deter her from her goal. She loses track of how many undead go down—how many had she started with around her? Twenty? Thirty? There had been at least two dozen in the crowd surrounding the street, and Tangles has no doubt handled a good quarter of them on his own. She wonders if this is his perk—that he's good at holding his own against the undead, even against a moderately large group.

She tumbles away from one particularly grabby zombie, crashing into the car with her shoulder, and takes the moment of freedom to hurriedly lift her bandana over her mouth and nose. She hadn't been intending to get into a fight, but she still can't risk ingesting anything even after half of the crowd has been downed. She won't bother with her mask, she thinks—it can stay in her bag for now. She rises to her feet as fast as she can when she sees the zombie advancing on her, once again using the head of the hammer as a battering ram. It crashes into the zombie's jaw and all she sees in that moment is various teeth and bits of tongue fly from its mouth. One of the teeth bounces off of her eyebrow and dings the back window of the car, and as the zombie falls to the ground she sees Tangles behind it, finishing off what appears to be the last of the zombies.

Tyri's breaths all come out with a wheeze, as do Tangles's, and all she can ask herself is where the hell all the time went. Had the group been smaller than she thought? It must've been; there aren't as many bodies around them as she'd been expecting, scattered from the car to the gate of the house. Certainly less than two dozen, now that she can count them all without the worry that one of them will bite her—probably only fifteen at best, if not a few more. That's still a pretty good accomplishment.

Before they can do anything else, she feels the need to send a new message to Saya just to confirm how much she fucked up with that knife throw. She copies the last message sent, erases the text, and adds in her own little message.

 **THORS_BIRB:** (ノ ⊙ ◇ ⊙)ノ。°。 youre a piece of shit momiji*

Saya checks her phone as the message sends through, and then she's groaning in offense and disgust. She picks up Amaya, carrying the dog down with her as she carefully climbs down the side of the house, and then strides out through the gate with her hands placed on her hips expectantly. Amaya runs to Tangles's side as Saya readies her speech and happily rubs against the boy as he pets her enthusiastically.

"Come _on_ ," Saya groans. "Let's be real here—if I hadn't thrown that knife like the genius I am, we would never have gotten rid of that crowd. I helped us a lot."

It sounds so much like Hotaru's still here, Tyri thinks. _Disgusting_. Her blood begins to boil as she soon starts to hyperventilate, and then it all goes downhill in her attempt to remain civil with these strangers.

Tyri cries out in rage as she begins to advance on Saya, fists clenched tightly around her sledge hammer as she readies it to strike the girl. Tangles chases after her and snatches the hammer from her with a panicked sound from the back of his throat, and he's soon pulling her back and holding her in a full nelson as Tyri screams at Saya, "I'm gonna punch you in the fucking boob you _wyneb cach haliwr_!"

The taller girl wraps her black jacket tightly over her chest, an offended expression on her face as she looks to Tangles and huffs, "The fuck did she just call me?"

"I don't speak Welsh," is all Tangles can grunt back as Tyri's hands begin to snag in his hair, yanking at it in an attempt to escape.

Tyri's still attempting to escape and punch the shit out of Saya by the time the taller teen picks up her sledge hammer and drags it inside, inviting Tangles and Amaya (and Tyri, albeit with an unspoken invitation) inside behind her. They kick off their shoes (Tyri kicks hers into the house in an attempt to hit Saya) and settle in the living room. It soon becomes evident that Tangles isn't going to let Tyri go as she continues to struggle. He just stands in the middle of the living room as he waits for her to calm down, his usual smile gone and replaced with that of a fed-up expression. Tyri finally brings herself to come to a stop after a few more minutes of trying to escape, resigning to her fate as she stares down at Amaya. Amaya, who has been watching Tangles and Tyri with her tail wagging and an inquisitive look on her face, is the complete picture of innocence. Tyri can't stay upset when this precious creature is right in front of her.

"Are you done?" Tangles sighs.

Tyri sighs back, deeper and more dramatically. "Yeah. My arms are tired, anyway."

"Same." He drops her carefully to the floor, apologising for any damage that may have come to her things while he'd held on to her, and soon invites Amaya to flop onto the couch with him. Tyri watches as Tangles falls face-first onto the far end of the couch, soon joined by Amaya jumping up onto his back and making herself comfortable at his shoulder blades. They have got to be the most relaxed sight she's seen in a long time, the teen rolling onto his back and enthusiastically petting the dog again as she lets out small, playful growls.

Saya wanders through the room, speeding in her stride as she notices the now-freed Tyri, and practically jogs out into the hallway again. She drops a bottle of shampoo she'd kept huddled under her arm, and is quick to scoop it up and glare at Tyri as she backs towards the room on the far side of the hall. It's as though she expects the smaller girl to steal the shampoo as revenge for the water bottle—which Tyri might just do when the time is right—but at the moment she couldn't care less about angering the girl. As incompetent as Saya's apparent knife-throwing skills are, she still worries that the girl can hold her own against Tyri if she so much as tries to pick a fight.

Actually, she almost did! It's only been, like, two hours since she met them; Saya had actually tried to fight Tyri, and was pretty close to winning after she began to dash into the shorter girl's blind spot. If Tyri hadn't been so used to paying extra attention to her right when fighting, she'd have been stabbed in the leg and left to fend for herself while Saya took her shit.

She sighs and stretches her arms above her head, cracking her back as she does so, and leaves Tangles with his dog in order to get a better look at the house. As she expects, it's a small house that's easy to make the rounds of. On the far end of the living room, just a short distance away from the front door, is the door that leads to the garage and laundry area. There's a thick smell of spilt detergent in the room, and Tyri's quick to leave it behind as she passes the couch on her way to the kitchen. There's not really much of a door between the kitchen and the living room; the wood flooring from the kitchen paves what she assumes is the invisible wall leading to the hallway, leaving behind the carpeted living room as its own foreign land.

Tyri makes a quick assessment of the kitchen—it's a little less spacious than the previous houses she's been in, the one that had burned included, with only enough room for two people to move around in if they take the precaution of marking sections of the kitchen they'll keep to. The oven is small, and there's barely any room for the microwave on the other side, and the sink is too tiny to fit even her head into, let alone a hotpot dish. Everything is clean and pristine, though; this family must not have been home when the outbreak had began, and no one had tried to come into the house prior. Maybe the crowd outside had scared off any potential thieves, she thinks as she pokes one of the ladles hanging from the rack in the far corner. The fridge is stocked with food that's more than likely past its expiry date, but the pantry is rich with snacks that have a minimum four-month shelf life. Tyri breathes a sigh of relief and clutches at her stomach—it's been a good few days since she's had a decent meal—and makes a mental note to gather every cup of instant noodles she saw in the pantry above all else when she comes back.

She makes a short trip down the closer half of the hall, avoiding the bathroom when she hears the shower clutter to life and Saya whoop with excitement through the door. She's not about to walk in on that mess, nor is she about to pick a fight with the girl over whether or not she's out for revenge. She probably will find a way to get Saya back, but for now she's going to keep her calm and do what she normally does—map the safest areas. She continues down the hall (assuming the small door on the other side of the bathroom is the linen closet) and opens the door on her left, finding a neat bedroom that has little to no posters on the walls. That isn't to say the walls remain undecorated, though—scattered all about, with wall shelves of souvenirs from the corresponding countries and cities, are postcards from around the world. She takes a step into the room, careful to not touch anything, and stares in awe at the various locations and gifts this person has collected. She can't tell if they'd been given all of this stuff or if they'd taken home themselves, but either way the collection holds a lot of time and effort with each trip made. Outside of the gifts and postcards, the walls and furniture of the room are muted shades of blue and purple, creating a dark background for all of the vibrant decorations scattered throughout. Even the shelves on the walls are the same shade of purple as the walls themselves, giving the appearance of floating snow globes and key chains.

It's a beautiful, simple room; she refuses to disturb it, deciding to preserve its owner's image for it. She backs out of the room slowly, careful not to bump into anything, and shuts the door as silently as possible. She turns on her heel and moves for the room on the right side of the hall, and this time she's met with a plethora of colours and shapes. Everything in the room is mismatched, from the pillowcase and blanket setup to the stack of beanbags in the far corner, all placed meticulously out of the path of the singular heart-shaped rug that sits alone on the wood floor. Unlike the carpet in the other bedroom, this room's wood flooring gives it the appearance of having being intended as a storage room before the other bed had been added—there's no sign of an inbuilt closet as well, only drawers and a vanity table. She clutches at her stomach uneasily, this time not out of hunger; the room reminds her of how she used to keep her own room back at the holiday house. Like this one, it had been a mess of materials and junk, all of them unsuited when it came to looks but perfect when it came to comfort. And boy, does this room look comfortable.

Tyri shuts the door without even bothering to go in, deciding that now isn't the best time to get comfortable. As far as she can tell, the house is fine and safe—and now that the crowd outside is gone, she can mark the street as safe, too. She pulls her map from her bra and unfolds it as she walks back to the kitchen; Tangles sits up curiously when he sees her with it, but doesn't bother to ask her about it or follow her to the other room to get a better look. She thinks she likes this aspect of him more than she should—as much as she likes having company, she's not the most fond of _nosey_ company.

She marks the street on the bench before taking in a deep breath to steel her growling stomach. If she has enough of each type of noodle, she can probably give the duo a choice of what they want to eat and just boil up a whole pot of the stuff. It's not a bad idea and it'll most likely fill them up for the night; what's she going to do about the dog, though?

Almost as though he'd read her mind, Tangles hops up off of the couch and waddles on over to the kitchen, peeking past her with Amaya at his heels and yapping impatiently. "Any bowls or small plates?" he asks, distracted by his own search. Tyri shrugs and takes a wild stab in the dark, reaching for the cupboard closest to the kettle and finding a stash of bowls, ranging from small to salad, within. Tangles claps his hands once and navigates his way past her to grab one, and then she can only watch in admiration as he undoes the zip of Amaya's small, cow-head backpack and pulls out a can of expensive dog food. It's shaped like one of those _Fancy Feast_ tins she'd see all the time back home—except _Fancy Feast_ was for cats, wasn't it? Japan must have some other dog food brand that resembled the ones she is familiar with, she thinks.

Tangles pulls open the lid, snaps off the tab as though by habit, and lazily dumps the contents of the wet food into the small bowl he'd grabbed. Some of the liquid splashes towards Tyri, and she recoils with a scowl when she feels a drop land on her hand. Amaya, on the other hand, is practically climbing Tangles's leg with each excited jump she makes. He carries the bowl back to the living room and sets it down next to the couch, and then he's lounging back again as Amaya digs in heartily.

That solves the dilemma of feeding the dog, then.

She folds the map back up and decides it's finally time to make use of the food in the pantry—particularly all of the packets of instant udon she saw. She hasn't had much of a chance to check the freezer, and she hopes deep down that the American college student level of instant noodles translates to their frozen goods. Tyri gathers all of the ones she can reach (she helplessly calls out to Tangles just as he gets up in search of a heater or a blanket) and lays out all of the packets in a line on the small bench. There's enough there for them to eat, even with the three of them starving for extra.

"I'm gonna check if there's any chicken stock," she tells Tangles. "Can you see if they have any frozen noodles?"

Tangles lazily salutes at her and makes his way to the fridge, opening the freezer compartment and muttering, "Why are there so many noodles," under his breath. He pulls out four large packets, completely frozen over, and chucks them into the sink to defrost. Tyri rolls her eyes and continues her search in the cupboard, finding only cubed stock instead of her desired liquid.

The boy beside her clears his throat. "You know it tastes better with _dashi_ and actual chicken, yeah?"

She throws her arms up in annoyance. "Does it look like we have that luxury?" she demands.

"Well, I mean, Amaya seems to be quite spoilt—"

" _Because you spoil her_."

"—but whatever."

Tyri sighs and leans her head against the frame of the pantry. "Look," she says. "If you want to dictate how I'm going to cook our meal, that's fine with me. But please give me something I can work with."

He considers her words for a moment and lets out a short, "Hm," as he squints at the pantry. It takes her a moment to notice that his light brown eyes are moving back and forth, scanning the shelves. Tangles stands still for a few more seconds, letting out another short hum; after a minute of watching him, Tyri sighs again and pushes away from the pantry.

"I'll go see if Momiji wants any. Not that she'd be that hungry," she adds quietly, almost vindictive. The girl steals things from other people, and it would be no surprise to Tyri if she had a secret stash of beans or canned meat in her bag.

She storms into the hall and comes to a stop just a few steps into her journey, knocking on the door to the bathroom casually. The water's stopped running, so she assumes that the girl is out of the shower and drying herself off. Tyri lets herself in without even bothering to wait for Saya's reply.

The first thing she notices about the room is that it reeks of cigarettes and ashes. She coughs and chokes on her breath the moment she walks in, and rapidly shuts the door behind her so it doesn't spread throughout the rest of the house. Before Saya, who is located shoulders-deep in the bathtub next to the shower, can even begin to protest Tyri flies for the window and opens it frantically.

"Um, excuse you?" Saya demands. She sinks lower into the water, keeping her cigarette—half-smoked—above the surface of the water. "Did I invite you in?"

"I knocked," Tyri wheezes, refusing to move away from the window. Saya rolls her eyes dramatically.

"But I didn't invite you in."

"Does it matter?" She grabs the towel draped over the bathroom sink and begins to furiously swat at the air with it, dispersing a thick cloud of smoke clinging to the ceiling. "What's more important is that you're smoking indoors—no; that you're even smoking to begin with!"

Saya scoffs and takes a deliberate drag of her cigarette, flicking the ashes toward Tyri. She leans on her arms against the edge of the bath, the smoke pouring from her mouth like water as she counters, "And who are you? The Chief of Cancer Police?"

Tyri practically hurls the towel at Saya, hitting the girl square on the head and temporarily blinding her. Saya flails and sinks back into the water, splashing some on the ground as she tries to pull the towel free from her face and hair. The cigarette drops to the floor, and Tyri makes sure to pick it up before Saya can even register its disappearance.

Once Saya's free, she makes a show of putting the cigarette out on the mirror hanging above the sink and glaring venomously at the taller girl. "No," she growls. "I'm the Chief Fire Warden."

She dumps the cigarette in the sink, drowns it in cold water, and then walks out without even saying a word about the udon.

* * *

The rubber bracelet snaps hard and painfully against Kori's wrist. It's been a long day and the group is wearing down after wandering all day in search of a safe place to stay; the clouds aren't looking too good, either, darkening with the weight of rain and pushing that extra force of wind at them.

"Looks like a big one," Kori says absently. One of the drag queens stops and looks up in the same direction, letting out a low whistle.

"We'll be out of power for a while, then," she says. She scuttles off to tell their leader—who Kori has learned today that the others call their "drag mother"—and leaves the younger behind her click-clacking four-inch heels. "Shanita!" she calls as she runs. "Kori says rain's coming."

The six of them had found a small house, probably only meant to fit three people at best, and had been spending their last half-hour scoping it out and trying to break in. Shanita, the drag mother, doesn't want to break any windows to make their way in; but with the way things are going, it'll be easier than waiting for Thirsty to jiggle the sliding door open.

Kori snaps another bracelet against their wrist. Tonight is going to feel like it'll never end if the power goes out.

Shanita eventually gets tired of waiting as the clouds roll in at a rapid pace, and finally lifts one of her long legs high enough to kick a hole through the sliding door. Kori joins the rest of the group as she reaches in to undo the lock; it's a good thing her knee-high boots are leather, or else there'd be a lot of blood for Kori to clean up. They're pretty sure that Thirsty couldn't handle the sight of blood, either.

Kori's right about the house—everything is so small inside, barely able to fit all six of them in the living room alone, and the kitchen hasn't even got enough space for two. It's like a hobbit hole, and they are anything but hobbits.

"Alright," Shanita begins. Thunder cracks and everyone stares up at a ceiling with bated breaths. "Shia, I want you to go find some blankets that aren't already on beds and put them in a pile out here. If you find any quilts, bring those too."

The shortest of the drag queens, with a bright ginger, curly wig that is held back by a headband, nods and kicks off her heels as she leaves. If Kori remembers correctly, her full name—or rather, her full stage name—is Shia D. Lux. It's not the most confusing name of the bunch for Kori, but they still don't see how it's a name someone would use on stage.

"Thirsty," Shanita continues, and Kori watches as the tanned, wigless blond wearing a heavy amount of eyeliner twitches in surprise. "Make sure the windows are locked and the curtains are all closed. I don't want anyone breaking in like we did and then stealing our shit before killing us."

Thirsty Supreme, the biggest wreck of nerves in the group, stutters, "Y-Yes, Shanita."

Shanita turns to Kori, but skips over them and instead addresses the next member of the group: Ginger Vitis. "Ginger, I want you to stay by Kori's side and keep them company if the power goes out. It's almost dark, and the last thing we need is two nervous wrecks tonight."

Ginger, who is unfortunately not ginger like Shia, nods and makes a move to pat Kori on the head with those long, sharp nails of hers. Kori quickly ducks out of her way and throws their arms over their head, frowning up at Shanita with puffed out cheeks. "I'm perfectly fine with the power going out," they lie. How many times have they said that to Shanita every time she's tried to stick someone to them?

Nine, now that Kori thinks about it.

"Really?" Shanita scoffs; one thick, long eyebrow raises in disbelief. "That so?"

Kori nods vehemently. Shanita sighs tiredly and waves a hand at the teen. "Fine, fine. Kori, can you go check the fridge for anything we can eat? And Ginger, you check the pantry."

The teen huffs out their chest and hurries off in the direction of the kitchen. Ginger follows reluctantly, casting an uncertain look to Shanita as she does. She's the only one who hasn't been left with Kori alone yet, Shanita being the one who usually takes on the role of babysitter for the perfectly reasonable adult.

Before Ginger can overtake them, Kori grasps tightly onto the pantry door and throws it open to peer inside. Ginger shuffles awkwardly behind the door, standing just beside the fridge. "Uh..."

"I don't want anyone breaking in like we did and then stealing our shit before killing us," Kori blurts out. They don't take notice of what they say, too focused on looking in the pantry for food instead of in the fridge.

"You do that a lot, don't you?" Ginger asks uncertainly.

Kori leans out of the pantry, squinting at the brunette. "Do what?" Ignore people's directions?

Ginger opens her mouth to elaborate, but decides against it. Clearly she thinks it's not important enough, or she doesn't want to upset Kori more than her attempted pat to the head already has. "So do you want me to look in the fridge?" she says instead.

"Well I'm not looking in it." It's simple logic.

More thunder rolls over them, and then they hear the beginnings of rain on the roof. Ginger hums in concern and quickly opens the door to the fridge, just before the light in the kitchen flickers off. The hum of the fridge, which Kori had barely noticed when they'd stormed in, disappears abruptly. Down the small hallway, in one the bathroom, they hear Shia let out a long, annoying whine.

"Kori, hon," Ginger says. She kneels down and sifts through the contents of the fridge, forehead wrinkling in concentration. "Is there anything in the pantry you wanna pull out to eat?"

"No. I've got food."

"What? Since when?" Ginger catches herself and shakes her head, clearing her throat. "No, never mind. Do you see anything the rest of us can eat?"

"A few. Depends on your stance on vitamin supplements and potato chips."

It's better than nothing. Too bad if Shanita and the others don't see it that way.

"I'm sure we can find a way to split it." Ginger shrugs. "If you find crackers, I've got some dip that's miraculously not hit its expiry date yet."

The rain picks up until it turns into an all-out storm outside, and by the time they're done the rest of the drag queens are gathered in the living room with a blanket wrapped around each one of them. They're not really dressed for the winter, if one doesn't count the fake ermine shawl that Cheyenne Pepper wears; Kori's practically the only one who can stay warm without a blanket, but they still appreciate having one to keep from getting a cold.

Kori says, "You do that a lot, don't you?" as Shanita hands them a blanket, and then the group is huddled together on the floor in a circle while Kori sits in the corner by the window. Rain pelts down hard on the glass and the scene outside; with bated breaths, everyone prepares for the inevitable shut down of power.

 _Twenty_ , Kori counts down in their head. _Nineteen. Eighteen._

"How'd the search for food go?"

"Kori and I found some stuff but there's not a lot. The vitamins should tide us over, health-wise, right?"

 _Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve._

"Anything for them?" The nod in Kori's direction is implied in Shanita's tone.

"They said they had some food already."

"What— _What kind, Ginger_?"

 _Nine. Eight. Seven._

Kori twitches as Shanita's voice is projected in their direction. " _Kori_ , if you plan on eating that damn cat food again, _so help me_ —"

"Wait, cat food?" Ginger sounds horrified.

 _Four. Three. Two._

Shanita sighs in defeat just as the power goes out, and then the drag queens are hurriedly huddling close together and steadying their breathing. Kori glances between the window and the darkened living room. Their heart begins to race and they quickly bring their knees to their chest, gaze settling on the gap in the curtains that they _think_ they can see the stars through. They could be wrong, spots in their eyes from the sudden removal of light.

Kori wraps the blanket tightly around themself, a large portion covering their head and face as they try to ignore the darkness around them, threatening to swallow them whole. They begin to silently count the seconds that follow, waiting to log how long this blackout lasts compared to the previous.

 _One. Two. Three_.


	7. Dog Days P4

**[Disgruntled sounds] _It's 5AM and I haven't slept yet_ _and the amount of times I've laughed at Felix's pun is absurd and concerning_**

* * *

"What's your full name?"

He sighs and sinks into the chair, the handcuffs digging into his wrists. "Felix Hazard."

She nods and writes the name onto the small pad, along with everything else she's noted so far about him. On the desk sits her phone, recording the "interrogation", if that's what he'd dare call it. "Mhmm," she replies. "And can you say out loud _why_ I've handcuffed you, Mr. Hazard?"

Felix almost can't resist the joke. "Because I'm a _hazard_ to society?"

The inspector doesn't find it funny—almost, he notes as he watches her suppress a small grin. She paces around the office and keeps her eyes on his bag. Everything in it has been taken out and laid out on the office desk in a neat little line, reminding him to try and see if the safe in the wall behind him has any alcohol that can replenish his surprisingly low supply.

"Mr. Hazard," she says. Felix looks to her curiously, but her sudden address startles him a little. He can't remember being this jittery before coming to Japan. "Are you intoxicated right now?"

He can tell this is going to take forever, or at least it'll feel like it. He only came into the building for some downtime, after spending so much time trying to see if it was safe, and then _she_ comes in and decides to arrest him. Granted, Felix had stumbled upon some _illegal_ plants that someone was apparently dedicated to taking care of, and _maybe_ he'd been smoking it when she came in—but the world is in a state of anarchy, damn it! This Inspector has no business arresting him on drug charges when there are murderers and _zombies_ to take care of!

Felix leans further down into his seat and groans loudly in reply. At this point, it's only his torso that's still on the wheelie chair—and with the rate it's starting to slide away, he'll be on the floor pretty soon.

Things seem to be going downhill one incident after another for him lately, although he's thankful that his uncanny luck has been there to get him out of tight situations. It's not every day some guy looking to loosen up gets flung into the apocalypse with his dad and dad's co-worker; it's even rarer so that said guy seeking to chill would kill the man who killed his dad without so much as a scratch. He's still a little fuzzy on how that went down. Had Felix just sort of _done it_? Like, "My name is Felix Hazard. You killed my father. Yadda, yadda, yadda"? It's not something he usually dwells on—normally he's not sober enough, or alert enough, to let the thought cross his mind.

Funny, that.

"No," he says, taking the blast to the past as a confirmation. "I am not drunk."

The pen clicks in the Inspector's grip. She doesn't look like she believes him.

A smile, small and sweet, makes its way onto her face though. "Alright," she replies finally. "You're just high, then?"

 _How dare_ —she's not wrong, technically— _but how dare she_. He barely even had enough time to _start_ , and he knows with every fibre of his being that _she_ knows someone stoned off their face wouldn't be able to sprint over a couch and almost escape capture through a window like he did.

But then again, the strength of illegal substances is subjective. She's probably busted people with more of a tolerance for the stuff than he has.

"Honestly, I'm not high enough." Felix finally slides off of the chair entirely, landing on his back with a loud groan. "See?" he adds. "I felt that."

This time a chuckle makes it through, and then she's making her way over to his side and rolling him onto his side. Felix is almost confused as to what she's doing, but the click of the cuffs and the lack of pain around his wrists alerts him to her plan immediately. He glances up at her—those dark brown eyes aren't on him, focused on putting the cuffs away in the inner pocket of her jacket—and Felix can't bring himself to stand up.

He knows for a fact that he towers over her—the embarrassment of being arrested by a five-four cop when he himself borders six-three was felt for hours, and he still feels it—but it's the open display of her gun that keeps him from running again. The revolver looks like its seen some sights, been through many battles, and the occasionally sighting of a bullet in the chamber reminds him that it's not just being used as a blunt force weapon like the woman's nightstick.

"Alright, Hazard," she tells him. "I believe you. _But_ ," she adds just as he starts to rise, "I would like to know just why you have so much alcohol with you. You can't possibly be using them for Molotovs."

Felix rolls his eyes and stalks over to the desk quietly, annoyed at her question. A guy can't have a stash of alcohol without someone having a fit over it? Besides, it's not like he's doing something bad with it—he just drinks it.

As though to make a point, Felix twists the cap off of the bottle with the least whiskey in it and chugs it all down without breaking eye contact with her. The woman stares at him dully, disappointment and dissatisfaction clear on her face. It's a look he's familiar with, and the level of care he has for her opinion on his drinking is as low as the care he has for anyone else's opinion on it. Old habits ten to die hard—sometimes they even mutate into coping mechanisms.

He twists the cap back on and exhales deeply, feeling the burn in the back of his throat as it slowly travels to his stomach. This whiskey had been a particular favourite of his; now all he has left is vodka.

"Ah," is all she says, and for once her tone is dry—honest.

Felix frowns and sets the bottle on the desk, back in its previous spot in the line of alcohol. Without another word to her, he makes quick business of putting the vodka bottles back in his bag; everything is back to the way it should be when he's done, and all the while he finds himself avoiding the judgemental eyes of the brunette.

She takes her attention away from him as a small beep sounds out from her phone. She hurriedly fishes it out of her pocket and unlocks it, but her hopeful expression falls as she sees the full notification. Felix watches her cautiously, mind wandering on the possibilities of what she's let down about; a text message? An alarm? A game telling her that her energy is full? He used to hate it when his games did that—it was helpful, but boy did it get annoying fast when they all utilized his alert tone.

The phone is put away again and she glances to him, confliction in her eyes. She looks uncertain of what she wants to tell him, the words right on the tip of her tongue. Felix shrugs and pulls his bag from the desk.

"Hey—Um—"

He flinches as she speaks up, freezing in place as he quickly looks over his shoulder at her. The conflicted look has intensified, but a hint of resolution has weeded its way into her gaze. "This is probably just some rumour I heard, and you're probably not the most self-sustaining person I could be telling it to," she says, "but there's this _thing_ that's popped up recently. I mean, I heard it from this guy in a chat room—Kotoba—but if it's true, it might do you some good."

Felix relaxes a little. From the way she's talking—the way she's doubting her information—he can only guess that what she's alluding to could turn out to be the best news that could possibly exist in an apocalypse: A safe place.

"Yeah?" he prompts her. "What's this 'Kotoba' say?"

She inhales deeply and exhales a short breath, and says in a rush, "He thinks there's a safe zone that's been established. One that isn't a community— _closer_ to a city setting than communities are."

Felix squints at her. "That doesn't—"

"It's just _not_ like the communities—that's all I know."

He fidgets on the spot and glances around the room. There isn't a lot of details in her statement—so it's not small and isn't full of favouritism, big deal—and it leaves him doubtful of just how safe it could be. "Did he say where it is?"

She shakes her head with a sullen expression. "No. He just said it was a rumour going around every time people came in range on the app. He's tried asking around, but they all keep saying the same thing—it's different from communities."

Felix sighs and sinks to the floor. He crawls towards the wall and leans against it, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to figure out what to do with this information. A safe place would be _stellar_ ; he won't be as jittery and panicked, and he won't have to constantly drown his sorrows with liquor—he can drink recreationally like he used to. Hell, he can probably _forget_ that the world as he knew it ended three months ago. He can forget he had a broken family that played a half-assed game of tug o' war with him after what felt like years of good times that had no sign of ending. _He can relax_.

He shakes his head and sarcastically grumbles, "Thanks." The woman sighs in defeat and sits down on the swivel chair.

"No problem." Her tone is equally sarcastic.

Silence settles over them. Neither knows where to go from here, who will leave first and who will stay, or even if they should say anything in departing. Felix doesn't really want to give up the opportunity to search the wall safe for alcohol, but the woman doesn't look as though she's ready to leave yet.

Her phone blips again, and this time she fishes it out and begins tapping away at it—sending a reply to Kotoba, he can only guess. She went to the trouble of telling him—someone who isn't really doing the best to stay on top of things—about this safe place, information shared between herself and Kotoba, and here he is being difficult and show little to no gratitude for this revelation. As unuseful and vague as it was, it's still something.

He thinks back to something he can give her in return, and immediately his eyes fly to the gun by her hip. Felix sits up a little straighter and says, "Hey, Miss Detective?"

She jumps and glances over. As soon as she realises he had in fact called out to her, she says, "My name's Naomi—Naomi Kamiya."

"Okay. _Kamiya_." He glances left and right, trying to figure out how to phrase this. "If you need, like, bullets or something for your gun, I think I saw some in a case next to the pipe."

Naomi flies out of her chair and waits with her breath held for him to continue. She must be desperate for bullets. Felix nods to the desk and continues, "The drawers on the desk—they're labelled with stickers. I think they were in the one with the, like, _really_ light blue circle sticker."

She dives for the drawers and frantically scans over them, eyes widening as she glances left and right. "The..." She shakes her head. "There's no..."

"It's right there, on the left side."

Naomi turns to the left side of the desk, pointing to one drawer in particular. "This is the only one with a circle sticker. Are you _sure_ you're not high?"

Embarrassment wells up in Felix's stomach as he slowly realises what her protests mean—the sticker isn't light blue, and tritanopia has screwed him over once again.

"What colour is it?" he sighs.

" _Lime green_ ," she growls. She pulls open the drawer with a huff and lifts a small box out of it—the case Felix saw the bullets in! She sifts through it and pulls out only a handful, the rest too big to fit in her revolver. Naomi puts the case back and pauses when she shuts the drawer, her eyes darting between Felix and the desk.

"Hey, Hazard." Naomi's head tilts to the side curiously, but she still looks as dissatisfied as she had earlier. "What colour would you say your shirt is?"

Felix stares at her in horror. "It's _not_ blue-grey?"

She shakes her head, having enough decency to look sympathetic about it. "It's this really—"

" _Don't_."

"But—"

" _Do not_."

Naomi throws her hands up and rolls her eyes. "Fine. Live in ignorance. God forbid I help you and your mess of a colour scheme."

" _It looks good to me and that's all that matters_."

They stare at each other in a game of chicken, then; neither wants to back down and let the other have the last say, their dislike of each other growing with each second that passes. It's during these seconds that three things become painfully obvious to Felix: The first is that, despite being colour blind all his life, he still runs the risk of eating something bad or exposing himself to dangerous substances ( _that aren't weed_ ) without someone else to pull him up and correct him; the second is that, like Naomi, there are still very many people out there with guns and at least half of them have the bullets to back them up; the third is that Felix is not armed to face said gun-toting survivors. What good is a pair of pickaxes and knives against something that can kill him from a good fifteen feet away?

None. There is no good in that scenario. He is a dead boy. Although he supposes the fact that he was tackled to the ground by a woman whose full height is equal to his _shoulders_ was already a pretty big indicator to that fact.

Felix groans loudly and slides into a laying position, rubbing his face in the floor and muffing his sounds of agony. Once he runs out of breath, he inhales again and says, "Kamiya?"

Naomi hums and waits patiently for him to continue. Felix swallows his pride and asks, "Can we travel together to this safe zone?"

He almost makes an offended sounds as Naomi does exactly the same as he had, flopping onto the desk and groaning in agony until she runs out of breath. He glares at her with his lip curled up into a sneer as she stands up straight again and fixes her jacket, her nose twitching in annoyance.

"Sure," she bites out.

Felix almost can't help himself. " _Contain your enthusiasm, please_."

* * *

Screams are a very common thing for him to hear nowadays, especially ones of pure, unadulterated horror. It's just not very often he hears them coming from men—they're usually the ones he hears screaming their battle cries or their significant other's name as they get taken down, alongside obscenities and the like. He has heard some guys do it—the horrified scream—but they're usually the ones caught in a horde and trying to get some help.

Which is probably what this guy's got himself into.

It's none of his business if someone was dumb enough to get themselves stuck in a horde and eaten alive. He keeps on the path he's marked out for himself, sighing as the screams turn into words.

Kilian Krauβ doesn't consider himself to be a loner, but there's no such thing as a competent group nowadays. Every twist and turn leads them to trouble, and more often than not he finds himself kicked out for either not understanding enough Japanese or for being an asshole. He knows for a fact that people have called him that, because the Japanese to English dictionary he'd found three weeks ago seemed to point the groups' mutual verdicts of him in one very distinct direction. It's not that he minds, though—it just means these people can't handle the heat of criticism, and really need to evaluate their choices.

The screaming continues and it's not long before more voices come into the mix, one voice in particular yelling threats that are similar to what someone holding a hostage would announce. Two other voices, easily pinned as female, are yelling things that Kilian can just barely understand.

"She's innocent!"

" _Don't be a dick_!"

Alarm bells go off in his head at the possibility that this person has grabbed and threatened a child from a small group—and the screaming man may well be her father.

As though confirming his suspicions, a wail echoes through the air. " _My daughter!_ "

Rational thought haunts Kilian as he breaks into a sprint. He needs to keep calm and remember that he can't afford to be a big damn hero about this. If he can't make the save, he won't. He is alone in this—there are no heroic, self-sacrificing people travelling with him and willing to lay down their lives for others. If he messes this up, it's all over.

He doesn't know what kind of situation he's expecting when he gets there—a large group of assailants? A small family begging for their baby back? But when he arrives, he barely wastes any time getting into the action.

Kilian sprints in the direction of the man on his own, waving about a gun as he yells his threats, and he holds his breath as the distance between them closes. With one great big burst of strength, Kilian launches himself off of the ground and points his legs in the direction of the man's back. In the span of seconds, his feet crash into the small of the man's back and they both go flying violently in opposite directions.

The man lands on his front, dropping his hostage, and his gun goes off without warning—blood splatters and chunks of skin hit Kilian in the face, distracting him from landing perfectly back on his feet. He stumbles and crashes onto his behind, thankfully not doing too much damage, and watches attentively for the hostage to make sure she's okay.

" _Amaya_!" the man's voice shrieks. Footsteps approach at breakneck speeds, and then the hostage is tackled into a hug by what has to be the least father-looking man Kilian's seen in his life.

Kilian manages to confirm that the blood belongs to the now dead man on the ground, the gun having apparently gone off while the barrel was in the general direction of his head. An unfortunate ending, but it's not like Kilian can help it—it may as well be karma for holding a kid hostage.

He hears a growl to his right, mixed in with the relieved sobbing that belongs to the so-called father, and he takes a moment to confirm the size of the group. Two others stand just a short distance away—both girls, one identified by the scarred face and eye patch and the other wearing a sick mask—and they both look absolutely speechless. He can't really blame them. This didn't exactly go how he'd planned it, but at least the little girl is safe.

A bark—from an actual dog—breaks the string of growls. Kilian's head whips to the right once he hears it, and immediately the air in his lungs wheezes out in its entirety. The "child" that this "father" is holding is not even remotely human. Laying on the ground, swept up in this young man's tight grip, is what looks to be a dog with a dusty red coat. _Not_ a human child.

Kilian lets out a deep, guttural sound of confusion. " _What is this_ ," he hisses.

The young man on the ground has his face smothered by the miniature backpack the dog wears. "My baby," is what Kilian assumes the muffled response to be.

He rises to his feet and stares down at the young man with narrowed eyes, his eyebrow twitching uncontrollably as he tries to figure out what the hell would lead to a dog being taken hostage in the first place. There's a loud clutter over by the girls, sounding like one of their bags had been dropped, and he glances over in disgust to see what _else_ has gone wrong.

The shorter is making her way towards him, relieved expression mixed with cautious, and she's got her hands up as though she's praying, pointed towards him. Her hammer and bag are by the other girl, who franticly glances between them and the shorter girl.

"Thank you so much," she says with a nervous laugh. "We were a little worried."

"' _A little_ '," Kilian scoffs. She sighs.

"Maybe a lot more than necessary."

The young man rises from the ground and rubs his face into the dog's coat, an offended sound escaping him. "There is no limit to how much concern one has for his daughter," he growls. He sets the dog on the ground and makes babyish cooing sounds at it.

Kilian's rage knows no limits.

Once the young man stands up straight again, Kilian taps him on the shoulder to get his attention. For a moment he almost considers _not_ going through with his emotional side's desires, awestruck by the bright smile this young man has, but cold reason overrules the fleeting feeling in his chest. He places a hand on either shoulder and smiles sweetly at the young man, staring down at him with wide eyes as his smile slowly tightens with each word that comes out of his mouth.

"You neither birthed this dog nor impregnated its mother," he hisses. "You are not its father and it is not your daughter."

As though to punctuate this, he rocks his head back and then slams it down hard onto the young man's forehead. A loud crack echoes in the street, and the two soon fall to the ground and screech in pain while the girl stares in horror. It's not the worst pain Kilian's felt—he's certainly suffered more in other situations—but it still _kills_.

A short amount of time passes—the young man refuses to even look at Kilian and instead buries his face in the reluctant dog's coat again; as he does this, the short girl simultaneously scolds Kilian and introduces the trio to him. He soon learns that the guy he violently head butted is named Takuto Himura, but insists he be called Tangles due to a dislike of his name; the girl with the eye patch is Tyri le Fay, a name that sounds oddly familiar but can't quite be placed in the back of his mind.

Tyri sighs deeply to herself when she gets to the identity of the third member, but pauses midway when a thought occurs to her.

"She's never this quiet," she mutters. In a flurry of movement, the short girl whirls on her heel and turns for the spot her belongings had been in—only to find them missing, the sledge hammer left behind, and the third member equally missing.

Kilian can only clutch his head as a migraine sets in, the throbbing worsening as the girl screeches at the top of her lungs, " _Bitch stole my bag_!"

* * *

 **Fun facts for this chapter!  
**

 **1) Felix is the most relateable character for me, and despite this _it took all of two weeks to write his scene with Naomi  
_ 2) The entire plan for Kilian's scene consisted of "[Kilian hears a scream in the distance] [ITS THE MEME TEAM AND THEIR DOG HAS BEEN HELD HOSTAGE] [Might Guy voice: "DYNAMIC ENTRYYYYYYYYYY"]" and it never changed for those two weeks**

 **Now then. I should probably try to sleep because a family member rises and realises I pulled an all nighter ;D; Hope you all enjoyed!**


	8. Dog Days P5

**Eyyyyy new instalment! The whole gang is almost here - I think there's just two characters left to introduce. Hope you all enjoy the chapter, guys!**

* * *

The washing machine roars as it reaches its final cycle, spinning the clothing and reducing it to a dampened state that's just barely decent enough to wear without feeling uncomfortable. It's a deafening sound and has them both on the edges of their toes in anticipation, expecting either stragglers or zombies to hear the machine and investigate.

They know each other's names now, though neither can bring themselves to say them and familiarise themselves with the sounds and lip formations. The rain had left them in a panic, soaked more than she had already been when she'd left the house; nothing in their bags had escaped the rain, and he'd been the one to suggest washing their clothes in the rain. Power had come back on as soon as they'd found a house they could hide in until their clothes were dry, giving them a sort of hope that their belongings could dry off quicker than they'd initially thought.

This is where they've been lead to thanks to the decision—she sits on the floor, knees pulled to her chest as she tries to hide her chest, embarrassed that the small towel doesn't cover any more skin than her underwear does. He sits adjacent to her, facing the window and with his back towards her—reassuring her that he isn't watching by leaving his hands covering his peripheral vision. It's polite of him, she thinks.

The washing machine stops with a screech. The last cycle has ended.

He rises from his spot on the floor and lowers one of the hands, keeping his view of Rebecca covered as he pulls their clothing out with his free hand. He dumps them into the dryer with a slight struggle, and then he sets it to dry their clothes for half an hour.

"Thank you." It's the first words Rebecca has spoken to him since she'd introduced herself to him right after she'd reassured him she wasn't bitten; she's been too anxious to dare say anything that wasn't necessary. He keeps his eyes off of her and returns to his spot on the floor, clearing his throat nervously.

"It is no problem," he mutters. The sentence is almost perfectly pronounced, just a few mishaps towards the end, and Rebecca feels a knot tighten in her chest. She's almost too lucky that Hiroto knows English—more than she knows Japanese—and wonders if she's dreaming of this turnabout of luck.

She's never been the best at keeping herself out of trouble, and with the way things go she may as well be a walking, talking bad omen. _Oh no, it's Rebecca! Don't let her cross your path!_ Like a black cat, only without the grace and uncanny cuteness. Today, though... It seems to have picked up a bit. She narrowly avoided death, found some drugs, managed to burn down a house, and then met Hiroto—who believed her when she said she wasn't bitten. Maybe things are turning up for her.

She wraps the towel around herself just a little bit more tightly. It's hard, trying to find what to look at while they wait. Neither wants to leave the room in case something happens, and they're too awkward and childish to look each other in the eye while they sit around in their underwear, waiting for the dryer to finish. Things were simpler while they were walking to the small cottage house; granted, they never spoke a word outside of their names, but they did throw the occasional cautious and worried glance at each other, an unspoken concern over Rebecca's arm and Hiroto's jacket exchanged with each one.

The half-hour passes without much interruption, and Rebecca gratefully takes her clothes from Hiroto as he blindly holds them out to her. They get dressed again while facing opposite ends of the room, and then when they're done they turn nervously to face each other.

Rebecca's not sure how unsettled she looks, but Hiroto looks positively bashful from the experience. He can't quite make eye contact with her, clearing his throat a few times, and Rebecca can only watch in amazement as he fidgets on the spot. He looks to be searching for the right words to say in order to move on from the wait, but everything is stuck at the tip of his tongue.

She smiles quickly to herself and clears her throat. He stops his fidgeting and looks to her curiously. "Hungry?" she asks him.

Hiroto breathes a sigh of relief at her question, relaxing within seconds. His shoulders slump and a small smile is on his face before she can even ask anything else. "Food would be good," he replies.

Everything becomes a lot more comfortable between them. They navigate their way through the cottage and find items of value; Rebecca doesn't quite add to her collection of things, but Hiroto is quick to pick up a few rocks from a collection in the living room and throw them in a small sachet filled with more. They search the kitchen for anything to eat, finding mostly expired food and rotten vegetables. Rebecca can feel her hopes dampen as the only _edible_ food turns out to be meat.

Hiroto holds up one of the canned goods from the pantry, reading it uncertainly. "'Canned beef and pork'. Hm..."

Before she can stop herself, Rebecca blurts out, "I can't eat it."

He almost drops the can out of surprise, the small object bouncing around in his hands as he scrambles to grasp it. By the time he gets a grip on it, Rebecca's already regretting having spoken up. "Okay," he wheezes. She wonders if his heart is pounding, like hers always does when Micah sneaks up on her. "Um... Why?"

"I'm—I'm Jewish. I can't eat meat—I'm a vegetarian."

Hiroto stares at her with wide eyes for a moment; she takes a moment to stare back, almost becoming lost in the depths of blue. She'd never noticed before, but his eyes are rather bright—perhaps the lack of eye contact before made her miss it. They _are_ rather pretty, she thinks.

He blinks and hums, pursing his lips in thought. There's not much in the house for her to eat, aside from the supplements lined along the kitchen windowsill, but she knows he'll refuse to leave her meal at just pills. Rebecca sighs to herself and waves a hand at Hiroto, dismissing her need to eat, and seats herself at the small table across the room.

Speaking of pills, she thinks, had Hiroto seen the nicotine patch on her ribs when they'd undressed? The pills in her bag when she'd looked for something to cover herself with? She's certain he would've brought it up by now, curious, but they'd avoided talking for so long that they may as well have assumed anything about each other.

There's a rattling of pans and utensils. Rebecca jumps in her seat and looks over quickly in Hiroto's direction, finding him leaning over the stove and hurriedly trying to light a match. She leans back until the chair starts to creak, unable to see what he's trying to do with the match. In front of him are two dishes—a pot and a pan—and the ingredients are hidden behind him. All she can see is the bouncing of his messy brown hair as he hovers over the stove and lowers the flame to one of the burners.

He lets out a triumphant cheer as the sound of fire coming to life reaches Rebecca's ears. He's cooking, she realises. But what?

He refuses to let her into the kitchen after she stands and tries to take a peek, informing her that they'll be staying in the house for the night and that she gets first pick of where she wants to sleep. She'd barely even noticed the sun had gone down at some point, the darkness outside hidden by the light from inside.

Rebecca doesn't even bother to argue that she doesn't sleep very much, shrugging and shouldering her bag as she scoops up her sword. She carries her things down the short hall and inspects each bedroom; none of them strike her fancy, although the smaller bedroom seems to be fitted with more books than the larger one.

She dumps her things in the smaller bedroom and sits on the short, single bed with a deflated sigh. The alarm clock on the bedside table flashes, as it usually does when a blackout happens, and displays the incorrect time. Rebecca flops onto her side and crashes into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed. One of the pillows hides a small, fluffy toy—which she immediately pulls out and hugs tightly.

She doesn't have time to just lay around and play house; Micah's still out there somewhere, missing and on his own. Rebecca knows for a fact that he wouldn't have stayed with their dad, but being in a foreign country with no knowledge of where is safe without a brochure or map is worse than being a local in this situation. Rebecca refuses to believe he's dead—he's a spritely young man who's been through some tough times—but she knows that no luck in finding him for _three months_ is a bad sign.

Sleeping isn't an option for her to pass the time, so she sets to work trying to find a laptop she can use or a writing pad. It's been a while since she's been able to actually sit down and write something, and if Hiroto is expecting her to wait, then it's the most she can do without giving herself a nightmare. She successfully finds a half-filled math textbook and a pencil case hidden away in a drawer in the dresser; barely even missing a beat in her movements, she writes.

Ideas have been flowing through her mind for as long as she can remember, constantly keeping her head in the clouds while life carried on around her. It's never been hard to write the small details of plot and characters, the short stories and tropes. Writing may as well be like second nature to Rebecca.

Attention isn't paid while she writes, the pen lasting fairly well on its own, until her arm starts to cramp under the bandages. She reads over her paragraphs as she rolls her thumb and rubs her wrist; it seems familiar enough, following two characters fighting a common enemy, and it almost reminds her of _Hansel and Gretel_ in concept. Two abandoned children; a monster trying to hunt them; almost no hope for them in their current situation. The paragraphs end as the male character crashes into a rusted, barely recognisable car, the final sentence half-finished and waiting for Rebecca to conclude it. She readies the pen to do so, but is stopped when Hiroto lets out another proud whoop.

She glances at the alarm clock. The time displayed is at least an hour ahead of before, give or take fifteen minutes. He must've finished his cooking, she thinks, which means he'll actually let her see it this time.

" _Bekka-san_!" he calls excitedly. His feet pound against the floor as he runs clumsily towards her room, almost sliding in and crashing onto the floor as he skids to a stop in the doorway. There's a big smile on his face that reaches his eyes, teeth bared as pride seeps through. He looks a lot younger than usual with the expression, a childish side shining through. "Come see!"

Rebecca ignores the growl in her stomach as she stands. Hiroto waits excitedly in the doorway for her, glancing between her and the kitchen giddily. As she makes her way over to him, she notices small grains of rice stuck to his face and fingers—there's even one in his hair, she notes. She smirks a little.

"What did you do? Wrestle some steamed rice?"

He nods and bounds back down the hallway again.

Confused, Rebecca follows him and walks calmly down the hall. She can hear him laughing to himself and clapping quietly, and she doesn't see why until she finally makes it to the kitchen and sees what he's placed on the bench top.

Two large yellow plates, completely flat; on them, a combination of omelette, rice, and _nori_. The rice is shaped on both plates to resemble a small bear, omelette placed methodically on, under, and around them to resemble a bed and pillow, and on the bears' faces Hiroto has placed sliced pieces of _nori_ to resemble closed eyes and a mouth. There's ketchup on the blanket-omelette of both plates, creating the shapes of three stars and a small crescent moon on them.

She can't hold back the giggle rising in her throat. Rebecca almost crashes into the bench as she tries to hold it in. Hiroto just keeps on laughing to himself, a large grin on his face as he kneels down and searches the cupboards for something else.

Rebecca's still giggling as she takes one of the plates to the table, and so is Hiroto as he asks her if she drinks hot chocolates or coffee. Rebecca finally digs into the rice and omelette, finding it to take decent meal given the limited ingredients. She has to admit that he did a good job with it—the omelette is fluffy and soft, the rice is perfectly cooked, and the right amount of ketchup was put on it to add flavour.

The coffee machine comes to life and Hiroto is careful when he checks the expiry date on the milk in the fridge, and then he's heating it on the stove until it froths and bubbles. She can smell two distinct drinks—coffee and hot chocolate—and it's not long before he pours in the milk and begins to fiddle with the froth.

She's not sure what she expects, but when he turns and leaves the kitchen, setting the mugs on either side of the table, she finds herself choking on the omelette and bursting into laughter again.

He's tried to make what she suspects is a cat, but somewhere along the way it had turned into a mound of froth that, once the face had been drawn on, sloped and sagged until it resembled a cat meme Rebecca remembers seeing a lot of back at home. The cat in Hiroto's mug looks to be doing the same, although the look of utter disgust on his cat is much more pronounced than Rebecca's.

They sit there for a good while, laughing. It's been quite some time since they'd last been able to enjoy little things—even without asking Hiroto, she knows he hasn't had this much _mundane_ laughter and calm in a while. There's just something about the cutesy rice bears and the failed attempts at coffee froth cats that strikes a chord with her and brings her a sense of normalcy.

Rebecca continues to laugh, even with Hiroto stops abruptly, and she barely takes a moment to wonder why. Her laughter becomes harder and harder to breathe through, her throat closing up and small hiccups breaking through, and it isn't until she feels something wet land on her hand that she figures out why. She slumps in her chair and buries her face in her hands, doing her best not to cry on the food and the mug—she doesn't want to ruin this meal Hiroto has made for her.

Arms are wrapped around her as her mind goes haywire, an insistent part of her blaming her for having fun while Micah's on his own and in danger. She's vaguely aware of the smell of lavender fabric softener on Hiroto's sweater, almost drowning in it as he tucks her face into his chest. Images of Micah flash behind her closed eyes, each one washing away with every tear that breaks through.

"I'm sorry," she mutters. A hand pats her head soothingly, but Hiroto still says nothing. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry— _I'm so sorry_."

* * *

He lands on the shelf with a mighty crash, stumbling over the spilled condiments while the male before him advances cautiously. Pain surges through his arm, his shoulder, and his ribs ache as though he were being stabbed. Seo can only roll dangerously to his side and push himself up with his good arm, the edge of the shelf digging into his side as he drags himself to his feet.

Both males have their machetes out and ready to strike, but Seo has noted that the man wearing the gas mask seems reluctant to strike—only moving in defence. His chest aches almost as badly as when he'd sustained the injuries, his shoulder and upper arm reminding him every second that it's still dislocated, still needs to be put back into place. If he knew how to do it on his own, he'd be fine—but instead, he's forced to find the _rumoured_ safe zone and try his luck getting patched up there.

From the looks of this scuffle, though, he might end up on limited time.

Gas Mask nervously shuffles to Seo's right, twirling the machete in his grip before taking a defensive stance. Seo cocks his head to the side and assesses the situation. Maybe he can knock the guy out and make a run for it with the supplies he wanted. Maybe he can trip him up and just run.

It's a hopeful idea—one that he bargains on. Seo rushes forward, ignoring his pain, and prepares to tackle Gas Mask to the ground, hopefully hit him on the head enough times to knock him out. His plan is foiled before it even comes into play, though; Gas Mask shoves him back and trips him, causing Seo to land on the ground, on his back once more. Before he can get up this time, though, Gas Mask sits on his torso and holds his own modified machete to Seo's throat.

Pain sears through Seo's entire body, his shoulder limp in an effort to reduce the pain while he feels his ribs digging further into his chest. Seo can't contain the cry that comes from the pain, surprising Gas Mask as his good hand punches at his leg in an attempt to get him off of Seo.

Gas Mask catches his hand and grips it tightly, a calm voice coming through the filter of the mask to ask Seo, "Where is your injury?"

Seo struggles to breath as he bites out reluctantly, "Ribs—and my shoulder—I think they're broken—"

Gas Mask practically flies off of Seo and backs away apologetically, putting away the machete as he raises his hands as a sign of peace. Seo takes in deep breaths, trying not to puncture his lungs as he does so, and goes limp as the pain slowly eases away.

He's screwed if he can't get find a place to fix his ribs and put his shoulder back into place. He's too cautious to try the latter on his own, too much risk involved if he does, but people aren't exactly _offering_ to relocate it for him. Seo wonders if Gas Mask's act worsened his broken ribs—but he's soon pulled from that train of thought.

"Your shoulder," Gas Mask says. "It's only dislocated? No broken bones?"

" _Yes_ ," Seo growls through his teeth.

Gas Mask pauses for a moment, considering what to say, before finally he makes his way back over to Seo. "I think I can put it back into place, if you want," he offers. "You gotta promise not to attack me, though."

Heaven forbid this man sit on him again.

Seo closes his eyes and sighs in exasperation, before opening them and rolling them dramatically. "Sure. Why the fuck not."

It's a mad scramble after that—Gas Mask tells him to stay put, that he'll handle everything, and all Seo can do is lay there and agree to his terms. There's a clutter of desk objects falling to the ground violently, paper rustling and tearing with each heavy object hitting the ground, and then Seo can hear the scraping of metal against tile. He straights his neck to see what Gas Mask is doing, but can't see him anywhere.

It isn't until Gas Mask is approaching Seo's left that he sees him—dragging a desk with him, at that. The desk has been emptied of objects one would normally place on them, only a sheet of paper detailing electricity payments stuck to the top left corner of the desk.

The desk is brought to a stop beside Seo. Gas Mask poses next to it as though to say, " _Ta-da_!"

"I need you to lay on this," Gas Mask explains. "Gotta do it right."

Seo rolls his eyes and once again rolls onto his side, pushing himself into a sitting position. The whole act of standing up and walking to the table takes him a good few minutes longer than it would anyone else. Gas Mask offers to help him, but Seo swats at him and snaps that he can do it just fine on his own. He manages to make it to the desk and flop half-heartedly onto it, and then it's only a matter of time before he's lying on his back and waiting for Gas Mask to do his thing.

Gas Mask takes Seo's dislocated arm in his hands and angles it where he needs to, telling Seo that moving is not the best option during this. Seo's brow furrows nervous as he stares up at the ceiling.

"You've done this before, right?" he asks nervously.

Gas Mask shrugs. "Does reading a _WikiHow_ page count?"

Before Seo can even snap at him and protest, rip his arm away from Gas Mask, the man slowly begins to roll Seo's shoulder closer and closer to the socket. It's unbearable, worse than when he'd been sat on, but at least this time it's over within a few seconds. The shoulder pops back in without much fuss, and Gas Mask is quick to put Seo's arm at his side instead of just dropping it like a sack of potatoes. Seo rolls onto his side. He becomes vaguely aware that endless curses and groans of pain are coming from him—he wonders if he'd cried out like he had earlier.

The two men sit in silence for a moment. Seo busies himself with keeping his breathing steady, making sure he doesn't make his ribs worse, while Gas Mask stands awkwardly to the side and out of Seo's sight. Everything seems to be calming down, almost; the pain in his shoulder has lessened somewhat, leaving him able to roll back onto his back.

Seo clears his throat and prepares himself to thank Gas Mask—it's not every day someone offers to pop a shoulder back into place without a catch in the apocalypse—but finds himself cut off when the automatic doors of the convenience store slide open. The ding of a bell sounds out, counting one customer entering the store.

She's small, pale, and looks so out of place in this scenario. Seo almost mistakes her for a child, until she actually speaks up—as well as raise her handgun and point it at them.

"I heard screaming," she says.

Her eyes dart between Seo and Gas Mask, and he's so very tempted to try and get back at Gas Mask by convincing her that he'd attacked Seo, but he knows that won't bode well for him in the end. Instead, he raises his good arm and confirms, "Me."

The girl's doe-shaped eyes narrow uncertainly, confusion evident in her expression. Gas Mask, with his hands still raised in surrender, takes a step forward. "His shoulder was out. I put it back in."

She blinks, surprised. "Oh," she says in a quiet voice. She's quick to lower her gun, suddenly turning into a babbling ball of energy. "I'm so sorry—I thought someone was in danger, and Mr. Kishitani said that saving potential allies is important, so—"

"Kishitani?" Seo pushes himself into a sitting position, finally able to get a good look at the girl. Her brunette hair is messy and long, tied up to the side in a bun; her white shirt is mostly covered by the material of her denim jacket, but Seo is willing to bet that the shirt is sleeveless. Her brown boots are scuffed around the toes, probably from the run over to the convenience store. He can't quite make out her eye colour from his distance, but from where he sits he can confirm that they're a bright, vibrant colour.

All in all, she doesn't look the part of fierce and powerful—just normal and stumbling through it all.

The girl ceases her babbling and looks to Seo curiously. "Yeah, Mr. Kishitani—head of the Kiriyama community," she explains. "You've heard of him?"

"That's the name that popped up when I heard about a safe zone. If he's with the Kiriyama community, though..."

She tilts her head curiously, but doesn't ask him to continue his half-finished sentence. Instead, she walks in a little further and smiles at the two men. "Well, from the looks of things, I still need to bring you back with me—Yuri or one of the doctors can fix up your arm for you."

Seo cautiously glances at Gas Mask. The man donning the red and white ensemble, hiding his face in the reflective glass, does not say a word about Seo's broken ribs. The girl takes this as a sign of uncertainty about going to the community.

She claps her hands together once as though remembering something important, and says, "I never asked your names! I'm Umi—or at least, that what everyone calls me. What're your names?"

He flops back onto the desk with a groan. He'd rather just go to the community and get himself fixed up _without_ getting to know anyone. Not that he can complain about Umi—she's a cute enough person to meet in the apocalypse, but her optimism is a bit unsettling. He wonders if she's even suffered that much, compared to everyone else.

Gas Mask nods to Umi and introduces himself. Seo is rather surprised. "My name is Alyn Grant. It's a pleasure to meet you, Umi."

Both of them look to Seo, waiting expectantly for him to introduce himself. He simply groans again and snaps, "Seo Orimoto."

"Alright then," Umi says proudly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alyn and Seo. Now then, why don't we meet up with the others and make it back to the community to see about that shoulder?"


	9. Dog Days P6

**Am I a dumbass who keeps writing shit in the early ass hours of the morning?**

 **Yes. Yes I am.**

 **This chapter's a bit shorter than usual, mostly because I wanted to wrap up introductions in this last part of Dog Days without making it** _ **too**_ **lengthy (meurgh) but all in all I think this is undershooting quite a bit e~e Sorry about that, guys! I also didn't give Jun as much spotlight as I'd have liked, but that'll hopefully change as the groups start to come together and personalities start to be compared together.**

 **But hey! Big news, this marks the end of the first arc! Look how quick and painless it all was, despite the headbutts and shoulder relocating! Now we get on to the fun stuff—** _ **GROUPS FORMING**_ **! I'm hoping things really kick off in the upcoming arc, "Kin", and that you guys enjoy it eue**

 **Not gonna lie, though, a lot of phrases used in this first arc have made it to my list of Favourite Shit I've Let Fly In Stuff I Write, with Kilian's pre-headbutt message to Tangles being, like, number one so far. (I wonder if I can top it...)**

 _ **[More news at the bottom of the chapter, as usual!]**_

* * *

If there's ever such thing as love at first sight, Jack's certain he's never encountered it before. There's not exactly a lot to love about the world nowadays, and people aren't always the most interesting or appealing, even when the apocalypse was considered a bunch of biblical nonsense and "predictions" that make headlines based on farfetched studies. Nothing ever sticks out enough; it all just seems like a novel concept found in books for young teenagers who eat up the stuff like it breathes life into them.

He'd never considered the possibility of it ever being _real_ before. Not before today at least. It's not every day that Jack finds himself thrown onto the ground by accident by someone who literally appears out of nowhere, running at virtually quantum god damn speed, only to find himself _emotionally_ knocked on his ass a moment later.

She's gorgeous—radiant, almost—and Jack can't help but stare with wide eyes as she shakes her head and tries to figure out what just happened. He takes in the long black hair, held by in a loose ponytail, and admires the way stray strands frame her face; her brown eyes scan the area, fall onto him in confusion. Half of her expression is masked by the sick mask covering her mouth and nose, but he's seen confusion enough to recognise it from a person's eyes alone. She rises, pulling both of her bags with her, and he catches sight of a cleaver held in the same hand as the smaller bag.

Jack is almost convinced that he's in love, hearing his heartbeat in his head and counting just how much it speeds up—and then she speaks.

"Ah! I'm so sorry!" she frets. Jack blinks at the apology, confused. "I wasn't really watching where I was going, was I?"

He's almost floored by her consideration. What manners! Certainly not something you find every day in this wasteland of a city! Jack smiles sheepishly at her and rises to his feet. She looks to be an inch or so shorter than him, barely having to have to look up to meet his eye. "It's no problem," he tells her. "No need to be sorry—you were in a hurry."

A small voice in the back of his mind asks why she'd need to be in a hurry. A voice that holds just a little more volume demands to know who this girl is.

"Oh, how nice of you to say," Mystery Girl coos. She glances around the area—Jack can see the telltale sign of someone running from danger—and quickly turns back to him. She lowers her mask to her chin, revealing freckles along her cheeks and nose, as well as a horizontal knife scar along her left cheek. "Say," she adds, "you're not travelling alone, are you?"

Jack nods warily. He's been asked this before, always by one person in a one on one conversation, and it's always ended in disaster. The people coming after him are getting a little bit more crafty lately, using decoys and attempting to ambush him in the hopes of taking him out once and for all. They're all smart plans in theory, but these idiots always find a way to let Jack go because none of them can decide who will take the trophy of killing him. The idiots.

Mystery Girl hums once to herself, and then sets down her smaller bag as she kneels down in front of him. She rummages through it impatiently, frowning at half of the things inside it, until finally she finds something that can be of use.

It's a small bottle of water, but it's unopened and free of dirt nonetheless. She smiles, a toothy half-grin directed at Jack, and holds it out towards him. " _Omiyage_ ," she tells him. "A gift from me to you, as a sign of trust. Would you like to have me travel with you in exchange for it?"

This is... Different. He's had people trying to steal from him, threatening him with his things in order for him to protect them, and he's had people just plain _take_ things from him for the sake of taking them; but being given a gift as a sign of trust? Just who is this girl?

Jack slowly reaches out to take it, only to have Mystery Girl push it into his hand. "Thanks," he says slowly. She gives him that half-grin again, nodding as though to say it's no problem. He checks the bottle for any signs of having been pierced with _something_ that can mix a poison into the water without twisting the cap, but instead finds a small note drawn in sharpie on the label—on the only blank space that isn't filled with information about the water.

 _Do not touch_ , it reads. _This goes doubly so for Saya Momiji!_

Ominous. Not exactly the most comforting thing to see on a gift, too.

He looks back to her with blank expression. He's suddenly not so sure this isn't an unorthodox, elaborate trap now. "You wouldn't happen to be this 'Saya Momiji', would you?"

Mystery Girl lets out a loud " _pfft_ " sound, rolling her eyes. "Nah, not me. I'm Maiyuu," she says. "That's just the name that was on the bottle when I took it from the store."

Jack blinks. "Maiyuu... Momiji?"

"It's a small world, I tell you."

His concern isn't exactly lessening with each reply she gives him. Jack sighs to himself and puts his hands on his hips, looking at Maiyuu with the exact amount of disbelief as he feels. "Alright, _Maiyuu_ ," he says, "my name's Saito. _Just_ Saito."

"How edgy!" Maiyuu voice drips with a teasing sarcasm. "Look, Saito, as long as you're not some crazed axe murderer, I'm not too fussed on what your name is."

She doesn't seem to demand much from potential allies. If only Jack had that luxury.

A short beeping sound comes from Maiyuu—from her other bag, slung over her shoulder. Jack watches her curiously as she sets it down beside the other bag; she searches through it until she finds the source of the beeping—a phone, possibly her own. Unless she also happened to take it from a store.

Jack inches over to her spot and peeks over her shoulder. He can't help but be curious at the notification she's received, wondering if it's her allies trying to signal her to get into a position. If she really is here to lure Jack into a trap, they've already made the first mistake—alerting him as well as Maiyuu. She clicks the power button and the screen comes to life, revealing a short notification for an app; from the looks of it, it's a messaging system that doesn't seem to rely on internet.

He almost finds himself regretting agreeing to being Maiyuu's ally when he sees the preview of the message.

 **THORS_BIRB:** momiji you shit i swear to god if i see you again your ass is grass

Maiyuu quickly clicks the button again and throws the phone back into the bag, zipping it up immediately and ignoring the phone as it continues to beep. Whoever Thor's Birb is, they're not happy with Maiyuu.

Jack can hardly contain himself, blurting out, "What did you do?"

The brown-eyed girl is quick to smile sweetly at him, her eyes narrowing in distaste. "Now why would you ask something like that?" she says lowly.

His best bet is to just leave it at that. He can't afford to take another life and add to his body count—not unless it's necessary. Attraction be damned, he's just not sure he can fully trust Maiyuu yet.

"Never mind," Jack mutters. He waits for Maiyuu to rise to her feet again, one bag slung over her shoulder and the other held in the same hand as her cleaver. "Do you have anywhere in mind you want to travel?"

* * *

Despite the fact that Yuri's not really one to touch people, even she wouldn't try to disturb this small young man from his sleep. She's not sure how she found him, curled up in a corner on his own, blanket wrapped around him tightly like a nest; she does know that he looks exhausted, beyond the point of being able to move at her pace back to the community.

Yuri tugs on the strap securing the Winchester over her shoulder. She passes a glance at the sleeping male—at his pale skin and his long, chocolate-brown hair—and feels guilt build up in her chest. If she wasn't so disgusted when it came to touching people, she would be able to wake him up without a problem. Yelling out something won't help either of them, since she suspects his first instinct will be to either whack her with the crutch by his side or shoot an arrow at her from his crossbow. Not to mention, the number of undead that could still linger in the area. She's better off just leaving him, she thinks, but not before leaving him a note.

It's early morning, the sun just now rising, and she's been out of the community since six this morning. Barely an hour has passed since the group had left in search of survivors, supplies, and undead to pick off; she hasn't heard anything from the others yet about trouble. Yuri hasn't slept much in the past few nights, getting in maybe two or three hours before she has to rise and keep zombies out of their borders. Ever since the last attempted uprising in the community, she hasn't really been in much of a mood to sleep.

She stalks out of the room, keeping her footsteps as quiet as possible, and searches frantically for a piece of paper to write directions onto. Yuri can't stay for long, but she can at least let him know she was here. Her search leads her through the apartment—from the bedroom the young man hides in, to the bathroom, to the living room—until she spots a small notepad on the coffee table. Beside the notepad is a small paper crane, a note written on one of its wings.

It looks like it's been made recently, she thinks. The folds aren't worn or fraying, and the notepad looks to have had a page torn out of it. Yuri is almost hesitant to pick it up, but manages to compromise and instead loom over the crane to read its message.

Written in what looks to be glittery gel ink is a thank you note, detailing, " _Thank you for allowing me rest in your home. May your journey be peaceful. Sincerely, Jun Hanazawa_."

It's a sweet message. Yuri assumes the boy sleeping in the blanket nest had written it, honouring the owners of the apartment instead of leaving without a second thought. If only more people were like this.

Yuri smiles and picks up the nearby glitter gel pen with a gloved hand. She turns the notepad to landscape, drawing directions towards the Kiriyama community in the safest route she knows of, and then tears it carefully out of the pad. Shortly after, she sets it aside and begins to write down a detailed message to him—asking only that he come if he means to live a peaceful life, and if he wishes to help the community in exchange for safe haven.

Her job is done, she thinks. Now to leave the house and let the Hanazawa boy find the community on his own.

Yuri quietly lets herself out and holds her baseball bat above her head with both hands, careful not to hit it or the Winchester against the rail of the apartment. Jun had chosen the second floor to rest on—access to which was granted by a single metal stairway at the front of the building. If there _are_ any undead in the area, they'll more than likely hear her if she hits the metal rails and stairs.

She safely makes it down and bids Jun a final farewell. She turns on her heel and continues on her path, the search for supplies unforgotten.

A few more minutes of walking ensues; Yuri sticks to the path that Mr. Kishitani had instructed them to go on, refusing to deviate from the safer areas. This is how she's done it for the past three weeks, giving her a sense of ease with each round outside the community, and people seeking shelter seem to always wind up on these paths. Just last week a Frenchman close to death had been found, on the run from one of the many less than pleasant groups in the area, and travelled back to the community with Kuruma to be put to work.

Out of habit, Yuri checks the watch on her right arm—only to remember it doesn't work. Why she hasn't thrown it away, she doesn't know; maybe the lingering desire that it'll jog her memory one day keeps it in her possession? Maybe it's more out of sentimentality to Old Yuri, whoever she may have been?

There's a cry to the east, sounding as though it's a mix between human and animal. It takes Yuri a moment to recognise it, remembering the community's emergency calls, and quickly takes action. She mimics the cry—it sounds so close to a scream, but there's something canine to it that confuses the undead—and jogs in the direction of the source.

Before he'd taken over as leader of the Kiriyama community, and before the world had even come close to its current state, Mr. Kishitani had been a man who took intense interest in the world of canines. He'd been the first to notice that the undead—the blind ones, at least—never seemed to attack animals, no matter how much sound they made. Upon further testing, he'd also figured out that humans who mimicked animal sounds often went undetected. Even Yuri has to admit that it's a miraculous discovery—it'd saved a lot of time and lives back when they'd started out without all the technology they'd managed to salvage. According to Kuruma, at least two or three people would be bitten a week, another one dying out on supply runs alongside them, and it almost brought down the community by the time Mr. Kishitani applied his findings to their routines.

If she remembers right, she'd just heard what Mr. Kishitani calls a "Vixen's Scream"—something they use to confirm where others in the area are, and to meet up halfway with each other. Kuruma usually says it's best used only if you've found supplies you can't carry all at once, or if you've found survivors who need access to medicine before anything else. It's apparently also best to only ever respond if you're out of danger, with medical supplies, or just plain in the area—but never if you're busy doing something else.

Yuri can't help but agree, mostly. If someone's injured, she'd rather take her chances looking at an injury than continue on her path, running the risk of having to have to fire her gun.

It's only a good few minutes before she runs into the person who'd let out the cry, finding herself relieved that it doesn't look as severe as she'd suspected. Umi isn't that much smaller than her—she still has to look down when she talks to the younger girl—but even Yuri knows that she can take care of herself just as well as anyone else. Travelling behind Umi at a somewhat slower pace are two men—one with purple hair and eyes, his arm slung over the other while his face is contorted in pain, and the other dressed in red and white, his gas mask blocking any peeks at his face. Both are taller than Yuri, from the looks of it, and armed without any kind of firearms.

If things get bad, Yuri and Umi will have the upper hand.

"Hamada," Yuri says. She stops just a short distance away from them, as does Umi. Word about Yuri's dislike of touching people got around fast, after her first week in the community. "What's happened?"

Umi smiles with genuine optimism, which means these two haven't shown any indication of doing something heinous at any point. "This is Alyn and Seo—they were in the convenience store near my route," she explains. She points to each one as she says their names, Seo flinching as he looks up to Yuri. At first she thinks he may have recognised her, known her from somewhere, but quickly notices the hand clenched against the chest area of his shirt. "Seo's hurt his arm and needs to go back to the community for one of the doctors to look at him—I mean, that is if _you_ don't want to. I kinda mentioned you knew what to do." She laughs with guilt.

Yuri can hardly hold back the look of disbelief she throws at Seo and Alyn, knowing full well that this young man would not need Alyn to help him _walk_ if it was his _arm_ that was injured. "So," she says, "your _arm_."

"Shoulder, actually," Alyn throws in quietly. "I popped it back in for him."

"Mhmm."

A loud sigh comes from Seo, shortly followed by another flinch. "I think I broke a few ribs," he admits.

"Yeah, no. Sorry, Hamada, you'll have to walk him to the truck—I am _not_ getting involved in broken bones." Yuri crosses her arms over her chest to reinforce this, almost glaring at the two young men as she does so. "Tell Kuruma and see if he can get someone like Etsu to meet him at the truck and take a look at him."

Umi nods dutifully, about to tell the boys where to go, but is quickly cut off by Seo muttering, "Why can't you just take a look at it?"

Yuri can't even stop her reply, immediately regretting it as soon as the words fly out of her mouth. "I'd rather not contaminate myself." Her voice is harsh and biting, threatening the taller male to try and demand she be the one to handle his injury. _Just try_ , the tone suggests.

Before so much as an argument can start, Umi is quick to tell Alyn and Seo that Kuruma and the truck aren't far from their spot, and that they're better off having Etsu look at Seo before they make it back to the community. Alyn seems agreeable, nodding as Umi delivers each part of her instructions, but Seo looks as though Yuri's statement has offended him to the utmost degree. She can't blame him for feeling that way, but there's still a part of her that agrees with what she'd said.

Even though she'd rather check to see if someone was injured and respond to their call instead of staying on the path, she'd still rather wind up in a corner with nowhere to go in a gunfight than _touch_ someone. Despite all her medical knowledge and care, Yuri cannot stand the thought of coming in contact with anyone else. It all just seems so unnerving.

Umi, Alyn and Seo leave her at that, headed in the direction of Kuruma and the truck, and Yuri is left with her thoughts for a while. This isn't the first time she's said something rude when someone approaches her about something, eliciting a hurt or betrayed look from them as they leave her side not even a moment later, but it's not very often she's told someone they'd contaminate her if they touched her. Sure, amnesia is a bitch that leaves Yuri constantly guessing and grasping at straws, and Yuri refuses to let anything cloud her ideal past—be they people or not—but even she knows when what she's said is too abrasive, too brash.

Yuri clears her throat and adjusts her gloves. She turns on her heel, ready to leave through the way she'd came, only to stop mid-turn when she sees it.

The current bane of existence in this world, one step higher on the scales of danger than the blind ones; one of the more dangerous, more evolved undead. She's never encountered one before, not personally, but the stories she's been told all start the same way. Dead eyes locked onto your form, absolute stillness, and a long wait as anticipation builds up once registration hits them.

This is exactly what Yuri is faced with, the thing _right across the street_ and emerging from the alley hungrily.

She drops her bat in a heartbeat—as much as she likes to keep it with her, she refuses to dirty herself—and fumbles for the Winchester. It breaks into a quick jog, eyes locked onto her bumbling form, and she can practically hear it groaning in anticipation as it closes the distance between them. Yuri's heart beats wildly in her chest once she finally gets the Winchester in her hands, held at the appropriate level, and watches as the zombie crashes into a small car in its determined jog to her. It falls to the ground in a stumble, leaving an opening. Yuri wastes no time aiming for the head and pulling the trigger, her ears ringing as blood splatters onto the pavement. As though by reflex, one hand comes up and pulls at the bolt, and the cartridge case is ejected from the breech. Yuri watches the zombie on the ground as the case lands on the concrete with a loud clink, preparing to fire again if it moves.

A moment of calm passes. The zombie has been put down for good.

Yuri exhales deeply and lowers the gun, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears as sweat beads at her brow. She hates this—hates killing, hates the undead, hates how _practiced_ her shooting is. It all feels so dirty and infectious, leaving a dark stain under her gloves each time she takes them off. Undead or not, they're still people—and killing people is absolutely deplorable.

* * *

 **Okay, so news! I know the poll had drabbles and playlists at the first two options people preferred as extra content, but right now all me and my helpers have been able to prepare is a trope list—which will be uploaded hopefully sometime within the week. I'll make separate posts for stuff like characters and the fic overall, but there's still some stuff missing that I haven't been able to keep up on for them so some characters may have more tropes listed than others oAo If you guys have any suggestions for tropes for Sanctuary, feel free to either PM them to me or comment them in the oncoming trope topic in the forum!**


	10. Kin P1

**In which I start off the Kin way off schedule due to me messing up my sleep schedule. Eyyy!**

 **So during my adventures into watching like fourteen consecutive sunrises, I added more tropes to the tropes forum! Only a few for some characters, though—some of them that I** _ **could**_ **add are a bit spoilery. Also, I've got the list of arcs put up in the general tropes section, so y'all can see what's coming up and hopefully speculate based on the titles! I'm also hoping that the arc titles don't spoil too much, but at the same time I hope they give a taste on what's to come and the kind of feeling future chapters will have ;D; I guess feel free to speculate on what might happen based on the titles?**

 **(Just a lil bit of news plus a lil update on things at the end of the chapter, too!)**

* * *

He finds himself surrounded by darkness, an empty void where only the nothingness exists. It's neither cold nor warm; neither itchy nor soft. The atmosphere reminds him of air on an autumn day, neither humid nor cold. Almost like a dream.

 _"You keep doing it."_ Her voice echoes all around him. He can't pinpoint which direction it's coming from—up or down, left or right, in front or behind?

 _"Doing what?"_ he asks—only he can't feel the projection of his voice. Instead, there is only an echo of his own reply, almost as though he himself isn't asking it. A memory, perhaps?

A sigh surrounds him. _"You know what I mean. You disappear when the other two go to sleep—and then you come back before Ran even wakes up, money in your pockets."_

 _"It's called a job, Mai. How rude of you to assume your devoted big brother freeloads and steals!"_ He can almost hear the pout in the voice, resisting the urge to laugh. He's had this conversation many, many times—almost to the point of admitting what it is he truly does when he sneaks out at night while everyone closes their bedroom doors.

Mai scoffs. _"Whatever..."_

A chuckle—once again his own voice, but he doesn't feel himself do it. Mai continues to speak, her voice distant and muffled, and then the indecipherable chatter vanishes altogether. His eyes slowly pry themselves open. It doesn't take long for him to figure out where he is.

Jun stretches his back against the wall, the blanket slipping from his shoulders at the movement. He blinks blearily and yawns with his hand covering his mouth. Another night passed without trouble; another day to spend looking for Mai. Perhaps today will turn up with something, unlike every other day these past few weeks have provided.

He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to manage the twists and knots that sleep had brought with it. The blanket drops to the ground and tangles around his feet, almost causing him to trip as he stumbles over to his belongings. He'd kept the crutch and the crossbow by his side while he'd slept, but his cardigan and thigh highs had been hung over the chairs in the dining room. Jun untangles his feet from the blanket and reaches tiredly for the crutch. He checks the end of it, confirming his knife is still hidden on the lower end, and carries it out of the bedroom with his crossbow.

As far as Jun knows, this house has been empty for a good week or so. There's semi-fresh rubbish in the bins beside the pantry, a veggie patch in the backyard that's recently been tended to. He wonders if someone's been by a few times to visit—he'd even entertained the idea of Mai being the one coming in and out of the place for the vegetables. It's a hopeful thought, though with his luck lately it's still just wishful thinking.

He finds his thigh highs and cardigan right where he'd left them, as well as his shoes, and spots something he knows he hadn't left behind last night. Jun had only torn out the one piece of paper to make the crane and write his message of thanks, and yet another torn out piece of paper resides next to the notepad. On both the torn piece and the current page of the notepad is writing—drawings that resemble a map—and Jun feels his heart leap into his throat.

 _Someone had been in here_. The thought brings an elated feeling to his chest. Jun smiles to himself and carefully picks up the note, reading over the contents. All these people ask is that he work in return for a safe place to stay, and his hopes slowly start to rise with each implication that comes with it—he can help people, really be of use. Soon enough, though, his hopes are dashed somewhat. He recognises the directions to the Kiriyama community.

There's no point in going somewhere that'll end in disaster, he thinks. With a heavy sigh, Jun folds the note over and over until it finally takes the shape of a small crown. He sits it next to the crane and nods at the two decorations with pride. They're pretty well done, considering the type of paper he's had to work with and the messy tears on one end.

Jun reaches for his thigh highs and pulls them on as carefully as possible, making sure they sit right and aren't uneven. He searches around for his hiking boots as he half-heartedly reaches for his cardigan. They always seem to go missing when he sleeps somewhere, the last place he'd left them always escaping his mind. Jun almost considers searching the bedroom again for them, just in case he'd left them in there, but stops before he can even leave the kitchen when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

There's that signature _ding_ that comes with someone entering the area he's in, picked up by his phone once a distance has been closed. People must be travelling through, he thinks; hopefully they're good people.

Confusion sets in when he sees the username displayed on his screen, proudly declaring in bold letters, "GODOFWAR". Perhaps they're a fan of some game series or want to sound cool? Maybe even intimidating? Whatever the reason, it looks ridiculously edgy. Jun rolls his eyes at the username and moves to pocket the phone again, only to pause when a message pings through.

It's from GODOFWAR, declaring a singularly worded message of, "-2". Jun raises a brow at the message, checking to make sure that what he sees is correct. It's been sent in a private chat to himself, nothing following the simple number and no other usernames listed in range. Something's off about it.

He hums quietly and leans his hip against the chair, fingers softly sliding over the screen and selecting the reply button. It's been a while since he's encountered a stranger—most of the people he talks to are the ones who frequently wander into his range, and they usually never want to say much to him due to events following the last time he would've conversed with them.

 **kotoba:** excuse me?  
 **GODOFWAR:**?  
 **GODOFWAR:** 1  
 **kotoba:** one what? is everything alright?  
 **GODOFWAR:** Kotoba  
 **kotoba:** yeeeeees?  
 **GODOFWAR:** Curious  
 **—GODOFWAR** _ **is no longer in range**_ **—**

Because one-worded replies aren't odd at all. Jun huffs and sets his phone down on the table, his apparent conversation done for the day. Whoever this guy is, they must have wandered around and left the range of Jun's phone, which means that they're probably on the move and finding somewhere safe to hide out.

He finally locates his hiking boots and slips them on without a fuss. He fixes his cardigan and makes sure none of his long hair is stuck under the collar, and it isn't long before he packs up his things and makes his way back to the front door. His phone notifies him again that his war-god buddy is back in range, soon followed by frantic messages consisting of numbers and Jun's username.

Jun doesn't bother locking the door behind him as he leaves. He spots just one zombie outside, wandering along the road, and decides that it's better safe than sorry to deal with it. He casually loads a bolt into his crossbow, takes aim through the scope, and patiently exhales as he prepares to take the shot. His finger twitches at the trigger.

He fires by accident when a loud boom cracks through the sky, surprising both Jun and the zombie and causing the boy to almost miss the head. The bolt hits the side of its face, lopping off a large chunk of its forehead, and it falls to the ground as Jun looks frantically around in search of the source of the boom.

A ball of fire rises quickly into the sky, the sound of shattering glass and concrete chunks hitting the ground not far from where his building is. Jun's heart hammers in his chest—the possibilities that come from an explosion as spontaneous as that are endless. Survivors, be they good or unsavoury; a simple gas leak; a missile that Jun would've most likely missed due to his lack of focus on anything but the zombie.

Against his better judgement, Jun takes another bolt from his bag and holds it in the hand tucked over his crutch. The ball of fire disappears just as quickly as it had made itself known, and he decides that now is as good a time as any to investigate the source of it.

* * *

Part of Felix wonders if going with Naomi was a bad decision. Sure, she's a (somewhat) nice cop and was nice enough to tell him about the safe zone in the first place, but the intensely awkward silence between them and the lack of eye contact is killing him. It's worse than having his cat ignore him or hiss at him from across the room!

Another part of Felix knows that he made a good call, for once. After all, Naomi is a _cop_. Cops do good things and protect the innocent. That's, like, a universal shtick when it comes to lawmen. Or lawwomen, in Naomi's case? God, what even is the right terminology? _Shit_ , no, he's getting distracted—the point is that Naomi is the law and the law is reluctantly on his side.

Not too shabby for a drunken stoner. Not too shabby at all.

He holds the glass bottle up in the air and swishes the two drops remaining at the bottom, closing one eye tightly and squinting with the other at the light that shines through the glass. He'd been sipping at it for the last hour or so, keeping himself in a comfortable state of drunkenness. It would seem that he has officially run out of this lovely, warm brand, though. Felix is sure that Naomi is glad of that.

As though to punctuate his thoughts, Naomi looks over her shoulder at him. Her gun is out of its holster, held in both hands and barrel aimed at the ground in front of her as she walks. She'd said that danger would be afoot in the area leading to the safe zone, but he has yet to draw either of his pickaxes. "You do realise that being drunk is probably why you can't do this yourself, right?" she scolds him. Felix scoffs quietly, waving his hand at her with the coordination levels of a toddler.

"This?" he slurs. "This is nothing. Look, I can still walk in a straight line." To prove his point, he points his feet like a ballerina and wobbles over to her side in a straight line. It's not perfect, but he doesn't exactly stumble either.

She lets out a short, "Hm," and turns her attention back to the road ahead of her.

It's a pretty empty space ahead of them, if the cars and buildings aren't counted. They had to make a few detours along the way to where they are now, what with all the traffic from the first week or so that had been left behind on the streets, and for the moment everything seems calm and fine. Felix somewhat wonders if, despite the advantages of having the law (almost) on his side, he truly may have been better off on his own.

(Naomi is right, though. His drinking is probably a solid sixty percent contribution as to why he can't do this alone.)

"Hey, hey," he whispers. Naomi glances back at him. She looks like she regrets accepting his request, and he hasn't even said anything yet. "What made you decide to be a cop?"

The question seems to catch her off-guard. She stops walking for a fraction of a second, hesitating with her next step, but she continues on again as she answers carefully, "The short version is that my dad was one, too."

"Oh."

A short pause settles between them before Naomi adds, "What made you become such a drunk?"

There's a whole list of reasons for that question, and a gigantic can of worms that Felix needs to be blackout drunk to discuss. The less he remembers when discussing his sorrows, the better.

"Short version is that my mam was one, too," he says quickly.

Growing up with Lewna Archer as a mother was not the most ideal thing, in the eyes of "normal" people, but it was better than being torn between super strictness and super lack of care given. She got him drunk a lot when she drank, but she still cared. Her method of bonding just had somewhat adverse effects on Felix, is all.

"I'm sorry to hear that—"

"It's alright," he dismisses her. "Being a piece of shit can run in the family sometimes. Nothing you wouldn't know."

She stops dead in her tracks, turning on him with an almost offended look on her face. Felix's gaze flies to the gun gripped tightly in her hands, suddenly hyper-aware of the possibility of being shot on this fine evening. " _Excuse me_?" she growls. "Did you just imply—"

"I implied that we are from two different worlds." His heart hammers in his chest as panic starts to grip at his throat, almost choking him. "I'm the scum of the earth, and you're the salt that makes it look pretty to the public. Like mother, like son—like father, like daughter. Though I can't say for sure the roles of scum and salt would remain the same when we look at our parents."

Naomi glares at him. Felix feels like he can't even breathe. "Let me guess," she snarls. "The little stoner boy thinks cops are pigs because he can't get high without a medical reason, so he waltzes around like a self-deprecating prick and acts like the world would be better in a state of anarchy? Is that what I'm hearing?"

He shrugs. "For future reference, I waltz around like a self-deprecating prick because I _am_ one. And what about you? 'Short' version is that your dad's a cop—but I'd bet actual money that it's more than that. What, daddy want a son but instead he gets a girl? Tried to save his masculinity by forcing 'traditional' male hobbies onto poor little Naomi? I'll bet there's a pretty good amount of disappointment somewhere along the line, too—"

"What do you know?" she scoffs. She advances on him, actually looking intimidating despite the difference in height in Felix's favour. "Let me guess—mommy didn't pay enough attention, didn't want to spend time with you and instead got drunk all the time, so you just acted out in the hopes of even being looked at by her because of your mistakes. I'd even bet my own badge to say that even after all that, she _still_ didn't acknowledge you."

Ouch. Way off the mark, but _ouch_.

Before Felix can say even another word, a crash sounds out from his left. If he hadn't gone through the events of the past three months, he would never have recognised it as a body crashing through a window. If he hadn't gone through the last three months, he would've just walked away and ignored it. Both he and Naomi whirl around and look for the body that had crashed through, apparently both aware that the evolved zombies are never deterred by mere windows.

The body is covered in blood as they roll along the ground, a crowbar gripped tightly in their hands as they expertly avoid cutting themselves on the glass. They rise just in time to stumble away from the apartment they jumped out of the window to, and then Felix and Naomi are scrambling behind a nearby car as fire erupts from inside the house.

Glass flies everywhere as a loud boom fills their ears. The car shakes with the impact of the stranger hitting the other side, leaving both adults to wonder if they'd been killed by the force of the crash. The blaze formerly known as the house illuminates the entire area, casting shadows up the bricks of the mural in front of them. Felix stares in horror as the image of an anthropomorphic cat is engulfed in darkness, the light of the fire giving the once-cheerful landscape a new look that reminds him of the stereotypical images of hell.

Except with happy furries instead of pained, screaming people.

" _Kori_ , if you plan on eating that damn cat food again, _so help me_."

They both jump at the voice from the other side of the car. Deciding to go with the flow, Felix waits for Naomi to rise and assess the situation; he follows, drawing the pickaxe that has "Popo" engraved into its handle, and peeks through the windows to see what's going on.

Whoever had said it just flies off of the car, a flurry of strawberry blonde hair and messy red racing back in the direction of the house. Naomi gives chase, shouting at them to stop, and Felix watches in awe as something races out of the house and in the direction of the stranger.

" _Zoombie_ ," he whispers. Panic practically squeezes him like a stress ball, and he shouts out frantically, "Kamiya, it's a zoombie!"

Naomi stops in her tracks long enough to look back at him and yell, "What the _hell_ is a zoombie?"

The stranger just keeps on running, crowbar raised high above their head before they bring it down in the zombie's neck mercilessly. Felix can hear the crack of the bone from where he stands, awestruck as the zombie drops and struggles to reach for the blonde stranger. The crowbar is raised once again, smashed against the skull of the monster, and then the short-lived battle is over.

The fire practically grows in size as they all catch their breaths. The stranger kicks at the zombie—who looks like it was a drag queen in a former life—and slings the crowbar over their shoulders. Felix fidgets on his feet, curious to see who this warrior of the apocalypse is, and eventually runs for Naomi's side when the policewoman begins to question the blond.

"Did you do that?" she asks, pointing to the burning house. The stranger turns to her with wide, honey brown eyes, and pauses for a moment before they open their mouth to reply.

"Kamiya," they say quietly, "it's a zoombie."

"Friend of yours?" Felix mutters.

Naomi clears her throat. "Not that I recall."

Fair enough. Felix leans forward a little, assessing this person's size and overall look. They're taller than Naomi, he finds, but still not as tall as him, and they look to have some muscle mass to them, if the definition through their undershirt is any indication. That blow to the zombie's neck wasn't a fluke, he reckons. Their hands are pretty banged up, and those cargo pants look like they've got more pockets sewn on than anyone would even need.

It's honestly almost as much of a mess as he is. "Hey," he starts. Brown eyes land on him, curiously awaiting his question. "What are you?"

He hopes that didn't come out offensively. Naomi's outright disgusted look trained on him begs to differ.

The blond tilts their head to the side, brows furrowing. "I'm Kori," they reply in confusion. "Don't you mean 'who'?"

"Oh—no—I mean, it's a pleasure to meet you, Kori—but I meant like..." His voice trails off as he gestures to himself and Naomi. In retaliation, Naomi kicks Felix in the ankle.

She sighs and looks to Kori sympathetically. "I'm sorry for his rudeness," she says. "He's drunk."

"I just want to know what's the proper way of referring to them," Felix whines. "I can't tell by just _looking_."

"Oh my _God_ , you're so _rude_. Just _ask_ about pronouns."

Kori squints at the duo. "My pronouns?" they say slowly. Felix nods helplessly. "Neutral."

That wasn't quite the response he'd been expecting, but he certainly learns something new when Naomi and Kori discuss what had just transpired in the house before they'd arrived.

Kori was travelling with a group of drag queens (which Felix had been excited to hear, despite himself) and the group had settled in the house. When the power had gone out, a zombie wandered in. Someone named Shia got bitten and infected everyone but Kori, and then Kori blew up the house after disposing of the vast majority of them. They gesture to the ground and calmly tell the duo that the one they'd killed was "Ginger Vitis", and they're quick to add that they did not like Ginger Vitis.

"No one does," Felix mutters. "It's hell to manage."

Kori just looks at him in angry confusion. Why does no one appreciate his jokes?

As though the day couldn't settle for just one surprise, though, the trio find themselves standing in alert positions and readying their weapons as someone practically comes skidding around the corner near the mural.

Felix has never seen a person who fits the description of the word "cute" so punctually in his life. Even with the apocalypse and zombies and _death_ , he does not expect the adorable appearance to survive. Yet this person, with their crutch and their crossbow, just zooms around the corner and comes to a startled stop in front of them; they wave their hands frantically in front of them, dropping the crutch and the crossbow, and the panicked expression reminds him of all those cutesy anime shows that came on whenever he decided to just veg out on the couch and smoke a few.

Naomi is the first to lower her weapon, relief on her face as she scolds the new person with a hint of worry in her tone. Felix watches in jealousy, upset that he hadn't gotten that treatment when they'd first met; and then he remembers that their meeting was essentially an episode of _Cops_.

"Is everyone okay? I heard the explosion, but I wasn't sure what caused it." The stranger picks up their crutch first, checking the bottom of it. Felix watches as they pull away the rubber wedge, revealing a knife positioned almost expertly inside the hollowed wood. Okay, starting to look a little less cute.

"We're fine," Naomi replies. "Kori just took care of a group of fast ones—"

" _Zoombies_ ," Felix whispers. Naomi kicks him again.

"We didn't mean to cause alarm." Naomi gestures to the group one by one, almost as though introducing everyone will make everything magically better. "I'm Naomi Kamiya. The drunk ginger with the terrible sense of humour—"

" _Oi_."

"—Is Felix Hazard, and the one with the crowbar is Kori..."

"Walker-Keaton," Kori finishes. Naomi nods.

"Kori Walker-Keaton. They're neutral. Who might you be?"

The stranger smooths out their cardigan and fixes their long hair before smiling sweetly to the trio, the smile not quite reaching their eyes. Felix is certain their eyes are a bright, bold blue, but after the incident with the sticker and his shirt, he's reluctant to believe what he sees.

"I'm Jun Hanazawa," the stranger replies. "If any of you use that wireless app, though, you might know me better as Kotoba."

* * *

 **So, news. There's a few things here that all tie in with the delay on this chapter, so I'll start with the easy stuff, since it'll be quick to mention and stuff :0 I'm sure those of you who have me on email alert or frequently check my profile will have noticed I started a new fic, and I've spent a bit more time on it than Sanctuary—I'm gonna do my best to split my time between the two of them, as they both take about the same time to write due to length and the amount of planning for each I've done, so don't panic if I don't update this for a while and focus on the new fic!**

 **Oke, next news for people who have character in/read Trust! I recently made the decision to continue it by rewriting it, though it'll be a while before I post updates to it. Currently there are two versions of Trust up: The old version, and the new version that currently has OC submissions open for an indefinite amount of time. It's been a while since I worked on it, and not everyone may be active after the amount of time I left it sitting there. I'm hoping to finish at least one or two arcs, or even the whole thing, alongside Sanctuary, though that's pretty wishful thinking on my part. I've got the helpers for Sanctuary backing me up with Trust as well, so they'll be able to keep me on track with it. I've got pretty much everything set up and linked on my profile if anyone's interested, and if you want to give it a shot feel free to check it out and keep an eye open for it!**

 **Alrighty, alrighty, tricky stuff now. It's a bit hard to put this in a way that's simple to just blurt out, but I'm gonna try. As of writing this pre-made author's note (28/1) I've pretty much crashed mentally. Like, not just mentally blue-screened—actually crashed. When I'd originally prepared this author's note, I'd only meant to explain that stress had caused me to blank when writing and planning Kin, but it's escalated to the point where I'm not even sure how well I'm gonna cope with sticking to a schedule and trying to keep myself from breaking down at random. I honestly can't say for sure what's going on until I can get a check up done, and I unfortunately have no choice but to self-manage until I can; so what does this mean? It just means that I'm going to have to repeat what I've got written on my profile: If this story stops updating for months at a time, please don't think I've abandoned it. Most times, when I get low, I can easily bounce back and continue a story after a month or two; this time, though, it's one of those times where it might not be so easy. With any luck, I think I'll be able to continue with this arc. With a lot of work on my part and perseverance, I'll finish this fic. Sanctuary, despite how new it is, is honestly the SYOC I'm most proud of; I'm not gonna let this funk stop it for good. So yeah, there's my pre-warning in case I disappear for a while and never touch anything. Sorry to be a bit of a downer in this part oAo I just want to make sure you guys aren't left out of the loop when it comes to updates and chapter progress, and this is the only way I know I can on this site. I'm sorry for how long it took to get this chapter done, even before my mental health got weird, and I'm sorry if any parts are shoddy or sluggish due to it. Here's hoping future chapters will be better.**


	11. Kin P2

**Hahaa I took longer than I thought I would getting myself to push through. I tried to make this chapter longer than the last to make up for the rush that was our arc opener, so I hope this is a good enough make up for that?**

 ** _Oh boy, I'm really dissatisfied with this, though._ (lmao when arent i)**

* * *

She's not sure why she's still travelling with him. It could be a sense of trust, a need to be around someone—anything that may have something to do with a lack of positive human contact. When it all comes down to it, Rebecca can't think of a single reason other than that Hiroto is just _nice_ when she wonders why she agrees to follow him to the small corner shop covered in newspaper pages.

It's been almost twenty-four hours since her breakdown at the house they rested in, and it's verging on thirty hours since she'd last slept. She'd feigned a deep sleep when Hiroto had suggested they get some rest before they left again; the moment she snuck past his room without waking him, the older boy's chest rising and falling in slow, relaxed breaths, Rebecca had raided her bag and took as many pills as she could without risking an overdose. Those seven hours were long and silent, the occasional sounds of screams and moans breaking through only once or twice, and she spent it all just thinking.

 _Thinking_. She does a lot of that lately, doesn't she? So many things she used to do to pass the time, and now it's all gone—no power to play games on her phone, no internet to read online, no solid understanding of Japanese to use a laptop. All that time waiting for Hiroto to wake up and believe she had slept, and it was all spent just stewing in her own mind. Thoughts always race past her when she's left like that, bringing up topics she doesn't normally want to consider—but what else is there to distract her? What can distract her from asking what she'll do with herself after she finds Micah? What can distract her from asking whether or not she'll even find Micah? What can distract her from the bitter feeling in her gut when she repeatedly thinks to herself, " _girl_ "?

Not a lot, she'd found. Hiroto had woken to her cleaning the house and dusting a few of the photos on some of the shelves. He'd assumed she'd rested like he had, and now she wonders if he can tell she never got a wink of sleep.

Rebecca wonders what the significance of this small shop is as they approach it. It looks like one of those stores that someone sits in, a small six by six setup wherein someone is served through a window with speedy response time. What do they usually sell at those kinds of stores? Tobacco, cigarettes? She's pretty sure she'd seen a video online with a _dog_ running one of these things. But this one looks abandoned, like someone covered the windows in newspapers in order to prevent people from seeing the inside or assuming anyone was manning the place. Heck, there's even a sign still hanging from the front that declares that it's closed.

Hiroto hums a tune to himself as he presses his face against the glass, cupping his hands around either side of his face and peering into the window. She's not sure what he expects to find, other than age-old newspaper articles layered on top of each other, but she does pick up the familiar tune that Hiroto hums.

It takes a moment to pick up, the boy humming deeply to himself, and then he suddenly raises his right hand to the glass in a tight fist, lightly rapping against it in time with his tune. She counts each knock, pairs it with the tune, and then she realises what he's doing. He's humming _Moonlight Sonata,_ knocking on the glass to sound out the chords he can't hum.

Rebecca lists the notes off in her head; _G, G-G, G, G-G, G, A, G, F, B_. He finishes abruptly at the final note he knocks, leans away from the glass. Almost too faintly for her ears to pick up, Rebecca hears a lock turn on the other side of the window.

"Beethoven?" she says uncertainly. Hiroto looks back to her in an almost proud manner, nodding with a short grin.

" _Adagio sostenuto_ , the first movement in _Moonlight Sonata_. I used to play," he admits. "It was my favourite."

She nods and watches the door slide open a few inches. She sees a wrinkled face peek through the crack, one tired brown eye looking them up and down with a suspicious squint. Rebecca fidgets under the scrutinous gaze, but Hiroto looks unfazed by it. Instead he raises a hand in greeting, waving it just a little.

" _Ohayō, Emi-san_ ," he greets cheerfully.

The window slides open slowly, fully opening to reveal a small, old woman behind the counter. Rebecca blinks in surprise—the sign had said they were closed—and tries to keep up with the conversation between Hiroto and this Emi person.

Hiroto lifts his bag and props his leg against the display cabinet, resting the bag on his thigh as he digs around inside.

As he pulls one of his journals out of the bag, popping the pen he uses in his mouth and flipping through the pages, Emi notes, " _Hisashiburi_."

" _Un_ ," he agrees. " _Gomen_."

Rebecca watches quietly as he pulls things out of his bag, one at a time, and stacks them on the counter. With each item he pulls out, he lists them off in his journal and looks to Emi for confirmation. Emi wordlessly nods and takes the items by the type, stacking each small tin of beans Hiroto hands her in the display counter underneath. It isn't until he hands Emi a small portion of the rope stash that Rebecca figures out what's going on—Hiroto had collected these things for Emi, having intended to hand them over without stealing any of the items.

That bitter feeling returns again. If Rebecca had been in his shoes, she would've taken anything she could put to use instead of handing it to Emi, barely sparing a second thought for the old woman. She clutches the strap of her bag in frustration; she's really fallen into a depraved mindset, hasn't she?

A few more minutes of discussion and item trading passes by, Rebecca no longer paying much attention to the duo's exchange out of guilt and disappointment in herself. Emi doesn't pay much notice to her, almost as though actively ignoring her in favour of Hiroto, and she honestly can't blame the woman. Rebecca's never had much presence when around others, always being the kind of person who tends to get overlooked when in a group. Left behind by the group that had made it out of the museum because she was took quiet, never spoke up; practically forgotten in plans made by people she came across with similar goals thanks to her lack of initiative.

She stands almost perfectly still as Emi scoots away from the window—quite possibly sitting on a wheeled desk chair, Rebecca thinks. Emi takes her time counting something as she reaches into a cupboard in the farthest corner of the room, and then she's wheeling back to the window and placing small, shiny objects on the counter one by one. Rebecca leans on the tips of her toes to see what they are over Hiroto's shoulder.

He shifts on his feet and gives her a good view of what he's being given, the yellowish items lined up in a row of varying sizes. Rebecca counts two sizes—neither being bigger than half an inch—and she almost doesn't recognise the trademark shape and colouring of them as Hiroto reaches into his bag and fishes around for something.

The word hits her like a bus— _bullets_ —and the scene playing out before her makes a whole lot more sense. The items he'd collected and handed over to her were for the sake of keeping his supplies up. She watches as Hiroto places one of his two pistols on the counter beside the rows of bullets. He pulls one of them apart—or rather, removes the magazine—and begins to load the smaller bullets in one at a time, counting them off in a silent mutter.

This continues on for a while, until both magazines of his pistols are filled to the brim with bullets and the remainder are tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Emi looks bored and leans on a clenched fist with an impatient expression on her face. Hiroto busily puts his pistols back into his bag and thanks Emi, and then the old woman says something quietly in return. He waves a hand dismissively, that nice-guy smile Rebecca always sees on his face seeming to grow as he tells her not to worry about something.

Does he just enjoy helping people, she wonders? Everything that's happened in the past three months—the apocalypse, the power going out when it rains, the steadily approaching winter and lack of food to survive it—and Hiroto just enjoys helping people? That can't be it; it's too _generic_ and _plain_. More so, why bother helping people when he comes across the things he does? Tins of food, lengths upon lengths of rope, alcohol, and Zippo lighters. No one would give them away simply because they're a Good Person™.

It's a scary question to ponder, now that she thinks about it. If he has a reason to help this Emi person in exchange for ammunition, then why had Hiroto helped Rebecca? What does he expect in exchange? So far he's helped her light that hellhole of a house on fire, washed her clothes of the blood and dirt she'd walked out in, and even cooked her food and made her hot chocolate. On Rebecca's side, she's done nothing whatsoever in return.

Does he expect something? (Of course he does, nothing is free in this world.) Is he waiting for the right moment to ask? (He must be, unless he's just _expecting_ her to share whatever she finds.) Is there even a point behind why he lets her stay with him, why he insists she follow him wherever he goes? (Maybe he's no better than the man who'd murdered those girls. Maybe he just wants a trophy or souvenir, and Rebecca was all that had been left of the house.)

" _Oi, gaijin_."

Rebecca almost jumps a whole foot into the air, pulled out of her frantic thoughts by the rough, dry voice of Emi. Hiroto looks over his shoulder at Rebecca curiously, blue eyes darting between Emi and the younger girl as he stands frozen in place. He looks almost nervous, like he doesn't know what's going to happen next, and it bothers her somewhat.

Rebecca clears her throat and stands up a little straighter. She can't stop herself from gripping the strap of her bag tightly in both hands, a squeaky, " _H—Hai_?" in reply.

Emi raises her hand and scratches at her palm with four fingers—a gesture Rebecca can recognise as a sort of "come hither" movement. She clears her throat again and shuffles forward, each step she takes raising the level of anxiety that bubbles in her stomach. Hiroto moves away from the window hesitantly, as though he doesn't want to let Emi talk to Rebecca; Emi shoos at him, hissing under her breath as Rebecca steps closer to the window. He reluctantly pushes himself away from the display case as Emi leans forward, and it isn't until he's out of an earshot that Rebecca finally makes it to Emi's window.

A wrinkled hand darts out and seizes Rebecca by the collar of her flannel, dragging the girl mercilessly into Emi's personal space. Rebecca balances herself with both hands against the counter, her hips digging painfully into the corner of the display cabinet as she's pulled onto the tips of her toes again.

"Boy better not die," Emi snarls, her English less pronounced and practiced than Hiroto's. Rebecca has no doubt she sounds the same when she speaks Japanese. "Valuable contact. You are not."

She swallows nervously. Emi's not wrong—Rebecca really doesn't matter, not like Hiroto and Micah do. Emi needs Hiroto, apparently, just as Rebecca needs Micah; while the needs are different, the level of importance stay the same. Contact? Brother? It doesn't matter what these boys are, only that they matter more than an anaemic drug addict of a mess and an old, withering hag.

"I know," she whispers nervously, suddenly breathless. It's like Emi is sucking away at what little youth she has left. Her knees start to feel weak. "I'm nothing."

Emi gives her a tight, toothy smile. Her face wrinkles up even more, her eyes narrowing into menacing brown slits as she whispers through her teeth, "Good _gaijin_."

"M—My name is—"

"I do not care." Emi lets go of Rebecca's flannel, leaving the girl to drop painfully back onto her heels. Rebecca hisses as her hips fly off of the counter, the pain of a dent in her skin almost numbing her stomach. "Anything to trade?"

She rubs at her stomach softly and looks nervously back to Hiroto. He stands alert in the middle of the street, having seen Emi's rough treatment, but he remains where he'd been told to stand. Rebecca inhales shakily and turns back to Emi.

"Do you..." She licks her lips and clears her throat. Her hand trails up from her stomach and instead to her ribcage, where she can still feel the outline of the nicotine patch on her skin. "Do you have patches? For smokers?"

Emi blinks slowly, unamused. "Better to quit," she dismisses. "Why bother wasting them?"

She has nicotine patches, at least. Maybe Emi wants to save them for someone else, or even just herself? Desperation claws at Rebecca's skin, threatening to break out entirely; she _needs_ the patches to stay awake. She's run out of the strong doses, meaning she'll run out of the rest even faster after today. "Please," she begs under her breath. "Please, I need them."

Emi's unamused expression turns to that of disgust. With a large sneer, she spits, " _Jankī_."

Rebecca's heart sinks. What had she just been called? It's spoken with the same disdainful tone as when she'd called her foreign, but Rebecca had never learned this word before. It can't be good—it's probably a sign that Emi views her more like trash than she had before. In the back of her mind, a small voice suggests that maybe—just maybe—it means exactly what it sounds like: _Junkie_.

With an impatient wave of her hand, Emi growls, "Empty your bag. Trade for them, _jankī_."

Her hands shake as she hurriedly drops her bag to the ground, her sword clattering onto the sidewalk with a sharp bounce. Rebecca pulls out everything she has to her name—the screwdriver from the last house, the bar of lavender soap she found when washing her hands, the leftovers from Hiroto's meal tucked neatly in a Tupperware container. She shoves her pills and her patches aside when she comes to her medicine kit, stacking everything else—swabs, bandages, antibacterial wipes, stitching supplies—onto the display counter for Emi to assess. Her fingers brush against the textbook she'd taken from the house, containing her unedited short story among the mathematical equations on each page, and for a moment she considers putting it on the counter. But why should she? What use is a half-baked story to a woman with a business to run?

It's worth a try, she thinks. With a steadying exhale, Rebecca kicks her bag to the side and places the textbook onto the counter with everything else. Left only in her bag is her pocket knife and her pills, as well as her dwindling nicotine patch supply. Everything else to Rebecca's name is laid bare before Emi, underwhelming and practically useless.

Emi scoffs at the collection of junk, but sorts through it anyway. She checks the medical supplies and sets a few things to the side, leaving behind only the bandages and antibacterial wipes; she sniffs the soap and pulls a conflicted expression, almost considering taking the unused bar; the screwdriver goes untouched, shoved towards Rebecca with a disdained grunt. Finally, she flips open the pages of the textbook, finding herself on one of the random pages Rebecca had written on.

Before she can so much as apologise for putting it in the pile in the first place, Rebecca watches in astonishment as Emi leans back in her chair and backtracks to the first page—the beginning of her short story.

Her eyebrows raise in surprise. " _Rebekka Soromon_ ," she reads out slowly, almost as though testing the name on her tongue. "Pseudonym?"

Rebecca shakes her head quickly. "It's my name," she mumbles. "I don't use pen names."

Emi grunts once, flipping over the page. "A waste on you," she comments. "As is this talent."

"Sorry?" Rebecca almost holds her breath once the words sink in. "Was that a... A sort of backhanded compliment?"

"Perhaps," Emi sighs. She skims through a few pages and then sets the book with the rest of the items she's chosen to keep. "This will do, I suppose."

It's not the feedback she'd been expecting, but it's feedback nonetheless. Rebecca feels herself smile just a little, hope fluttering in her chest as her cheeks redden with pride. She hadn't expected her work to be complimented; looked over, maybe, but not accepted as worthy of being traded for something. Emi rolls away from the counter on her wheelie chair as Rebecca starts packing the remainder of her things back into her bag. There's an audible clutter of empty boxes and small curses filtered in between Emi's muttering. Rebecca's belongings are packed away safely once Emi returns, and to her relief she holds two small boxes of nicotine patches.

Emi slides them across the counter and into Rebecca's reach, that unamused expression back on her face once again as she says, "He had better not die because of you and your addiction."

She scrambles for them and shoves them haphazardly into her bag. "Important contact," Rebecca recites hurriedly. "More important than me. I know. I promise this won't bite him in the behind."

"The word of a _jankī_ means nothing to me," Emi growls. She opens the textbook up again and tears out one of the blank pages at the back, flattening the sheet of paper on the counter. Before Rebecca can ask what she's doing, Emi pulls a pen out from one of the many pockets of her apron and clicks it open. She scribbles a few words Rebecca doesn't recognise onto the paper, and then folds it in half and shoves it towards the teen. "Give him this."

Not even a "please". She can't complain, though. Rebecca takes it from the counter and nods quickly. Emi shoos her away in the same fashion she had Hiroto, though stops Rebecca again as she turns on her heel to join him. " _Jankī_ ," she says, this time loud enough for Hiroto to hear. "Get some sleep. You look like shit. Shit costs me contacts."

All at once, Rebecca's heart thrums in a panic as Hiroto looks to her in alarm. She isn't sure which part of Emi's statement causes more concern in her—the name she calls her, which Rebecca has no doubt Hiroto knows the meaning of, or the fact that she just called her out on her sleeping habits. Either way, Rebecca feels exposed and like she'll be inevitably coddled. Coddling is the last thing she wants from Hiroto.

"S—" Rebecca almost chokes on her own voice, struggling to play it casual and write off what Emi had said. Make it look like a joke. "Sure. Try not to have a heart attack, too. I might need more stuff."

Emi sneers at her and violently shuts the store window. The sign out front rattles against the glass and almost falls off, now left uneven and tangled on its display.

That could've gone better, she thinks. Rebecca clears her throat quietly and chews at her bottom lip as she joins Hiroto's side. The taller teen doesn't make much of a move until Rebecca is at his side, and then he's looking down at her with so much concern that her heart starts to ache. In the back of her mind, Rebecca can hear the words she and Emi had spoken not even ten minutes before: _He's important. I'm nothing_.

Hoping to avoid the inevitable questioning that he'll unleash, Rebecca tentatively holds the paper out to him and says, "She wanted me to give you this."

His brows furrow as he takes the paper, reading over the contents before returning his gaze to her. "It's her shopping list," he says. "If we come across them, we can grab them for her."

Rebecca nods and trains her gaze to the ground ahead of her, refusing to meet his eye as he glances every so often down at her. What Emi had said is bugging him, but she refuses to give him an opportunity to ask. She'll lie through her teeth and make sure he never knows just how long it's been since she's slept without nightmares, how long she's been relying on pills and patches to function.

" _Bekka-san_ ," Hiroto starts. She twitches and clutches the strap of her bag tighter. Rebecca watches as her knuckles turn white, the seconds ticking by as she waits for him to continue.

When he doesn't, she whispers, "Yeah?"

"Is everything okay?"

Truthfully, no. Nothing is okay. It's been three months since she lost her little brother, and she hasn't seen any sign of him anywhere in all the places she's looked. Rebecca's become addicted to nicotine and pills that people take for a slew of things she doesn't have. Not even three days ago she almost lost her head to a man who only needed one piece left in his puzzle. The wound on her arm hasn't healed a bit since she'd been cut in the first few days of the apocalypse. She just got given quite possibly the worst customer service from a chair-bound old lady. _She is nothing_.

She inhales sharply and sighs, "I'm fine."

"Feeling okay?"

"Yeah. I mean—she just thought I looked tired. I always look like crap, though."

He hesitates for a second. Rebecca almost thinks the conversation is dropped then and there, but then he asks, "Do you know what _jankī_ means?"

Rebecca glances at him quickly. He's watching the road instead of her now, keeping his eyes on the path ahead of them. "I can assume," she mutters.

Hiroto hums to himself. She can't tell if it's in agreement or in thought, or even in some form of negative expression. He doesn't offer much else after it, though; somehow, this just confirms her suspicion that Emi had called her a junkie—and that Hiroto is worried about it.

"Hey, uh..." Rebecca rubs the back of her neck as casually as possible, hoping to come off as though she's bringing up the topic at random. "Don't let me slow you down, okay?"

Hiroto stops walking altogether. She thinks he might have stumbled, but when he doesn't join her side again for a few more steps, she turns back to see what's wrong. An astonished expression is directed at her, his blue eyes blinking at her in disbelief as her request filters through his mind. Rebecca watches uneasily as he sighs to himself, and then prepares for a tongue lashing as he slowly starts to make his way to her side again.

Instead of the scolding, or the "you idiot" she half expects, Hiroto pats her on the head lightly and smiles sympathetically. "Don't let me push you too much, okay?" he replies.

A sick feeling rises in her chest. Guilt, she thinks, because what else could make her feel like such a piece of trash after being treated so nicely despite her dismissive ways?

 _Ignore him_.

She bites her lip again and inhales deeply. The guilty feeling won't go away.

 _You'll slow him down._

The hand drops off of her head and onto her shoulder, giving her a supportive nudge.

 _You're nothing_.

She swallows a lump in her throat and whispers, "Okay."

* * *

Even after sleeping on his suspicions, it's very obvious that something is wrong with the Kiriyama community. Never mind the stories he'd hear second-hand from travellers who'd previously lived in the makeshift city; never mind the wary messages he would be sent by Kotoba whenever the user was in range. Seeing it with his own two eyes, standing right in the thick of it, he knows there's something _off_ about it all.

After Umi had lead them to the truck and introduced them to Kuruma, Seo was inspected by the meek man known as Etsu in the back of the rusty red pickup truck. Alyn had been tempted to leave at that point—there isn't much sense in staying with them if they're going to the Kiriyama community—but Umi's concern for his welfare convinced him to give it one night.

Seo, full of complaints and exhausted, cynical quips, had been doing better with his shoulder rolled back into place. All that had remained to be taken care of was his ribs, which Etsu had handed fairly quickly once Kuruma parked the truck inside the community. At some point along the way, he'd pulled over and picked up Yuri from the side of the road. Yuri never spoke much to them, keeping to herself, and Alyn didn't miss the way she inched away from anyone who go so much as a centimetre too close.

There's something off about Yuri, now that he thinks about it. Alyn stretches and feels his spine pop as his hands raise to the ceiling. It's odd that she shares the same name as the community, yet isn't in charge—instead, it's a man named Kishitani. He can't put his finger on why she would share the name, or why she wouldn't be in charge. Generally, if a group is named for a person it's named for their leader, right?

It's more than just the name, though. The way she'd told Seo that touching him would contaminate her—even the most hysterical of survivors wouldn't believe they'd get infected just by _touching_ someone. The way Yuri closed up to everyone on the drive home, the way Kuruma had asked if she'd seen anything new—"Any news for you?" he'd asked. Things have changed, sure, but this is just too curious to ignore and write off as caution and tactics.

He supposes he can be thankful for one thing in the community, though: The rooms they give out to visitors have personalised bathrooms, leaving some sense of privacy compared to the people who live and work in the community. For a while, after arriving, Alyn had been worried about using the homemade communal bath inside one tent, concerned that his intimidating image would be ruined once he took off his gas mask, but the generosity of Mr. Kishitani apparently extends to bathrooms and self-care.

After washing his face and giving his mask a quick wipe—mostly around the mirrored glass of the eyes—Alyn slips it back onto his face and runs a hand shakily through his hair. The light grey hair hasn't grown much since he'd been left on his own, but it sure looks like as much of a mess as he feels sometimes. He's amazed at half of the directions it sticks out in; it's probably a result of the mask's straps holding it in place all day, every day. He zips up his white parka and shoves his hands into his pockets, leaving his work gloves in the pockets of his cargo pants. It's not very cold today, and he knows he'll need to put them back on when he leaves the community, but for now it's best to look at least a _little_ bit trustworthy. Despite how hard he tries to look intimidating and powerful, straight out of a nightmare and faceless, keeping up this appearance in the community might result in undesirables giving him a hard time.

There's not a lot he has to do today before he leaves—maybe take a few supplies while no one else is looking, sneak out before sundown—so he finds himself just wandering around and observing everything. The community itself reminds him of a military compound: High, barbed wire fences surrounding rows upon rows of tents that can house at least a dozen people at a time; everywhere he looks, at least one person is walking around wearing some form of uniform while keeping their rifle aimed at the ground, away from those that walk past. At the centre of the collection of tents sits a single-storey building, made of brick and wood and having a single window at its front. That is apparently where the office of the generous Mr. Kishitani is; he hasn't seen anyone come in or out of it yet, though.

A large group of people walk out of one tent—a mixture of young and old, with the youngest looking like he'd been pulled right out of a high school the day before—and Alyn checks the sign above the door to see what's inside. He sees a mess of paint declaring "Mess Hall" on a single plank of wood; his stomach growls quietly when he realises what it means. Alyn sighs to himself and decides to investigate, see if he can swipe something to eat in private, and steps inside the moment the door is within reach.

The mess hall is practically empty, with only a few of the many tables holding people finishing the remainder of their breakfasts. He doesn't see any familiar faces at first—Seo must still be in the infirmary, and Umi doesn't look to be sitting with any of the groups—but he soon finds _someone_ he at least knows the name of in the far corner of the tent. Alyn casually makes his way over to the table she sits at, making sure not to bump into anyone on the way, and slides into the seat across from her before she can even look up and see who it is.

Yuri swallows the spoonful of cereal in her mouth and curtly greets, "Grant."

Alyn nods, an equally curt manner in his tone as he replies, "Kiriyama."

"Checked up on your friend yet?" she asks. Her eyes are glued to an object held in one of her gloved hands, the item too small for Alyn to make out from just a glance. "He's still in the infirmary."

He shakes his head. "Not yet. Have you?"

Yuri snorts, but almost chokes on her next spoonful of cereal. She clears her throat and coughs once. "I kind of have to," she says quietly. "I've got medical training—I mean, I guess I do?—and since I brought him in, he's my responsibility."

"How's he doing?"

"Hopped off his ass on Valium. His shoulder and ribs were bothering him and we didn't have anything else to help him out. Only gave him a small dose, but the kid's as high as a kite right now."

Alyn can't help but laugh a little. "I'm sure he'll appreciate the euphoria," he notes.

Yuri shrugs. "Probably not, if he remembers the experience," she says. "He's spilling his guts to people who sit near him, and even then it's just observations. Y'know what he said to me this morning? 'You're really pretty and kind of mean and it makes me confused'."

"Yikes."

"I told him I'm also really gay, and then he got upset and started sulking about someone named Arima. It's a mess, but I guess it's handy if you want to ask him anything."

As handy as it would be, Alyn doesn't really have anything he'd want to ask Seo. _Yuri_ , on the other hand, he'd probably interrogate if given the chance.

There's a lot of things she's said just now that he can pounce on. ("You _guess_ you've got medical training? How come he's your responsibility when Hamada found him? You're gay?") Instead of going for the obvious, though, Alyn leans forward on his elbows and cocks his head curiously to the side. He points lazily to Yuri's face, at the bruise around her eye, as his finger traces a circle in the air.

"Quite the shiner," he remarks. "Get it outside?"

Yuri looks back down at her cereal and sets down the item in her hand—a small, old watch that is incorrect in its time. "Inside," she says. "Less than a week ago, actually. People started a fight and tried to change the community, and I was one of the people to kick them out."

He hums to himself. So the Kiriyama community really does have outbreaks of fights every so often. That's one rumour confirmed. "So what's up with your name?"

She sighs deeply. This must be annoying her somewhat, but her eyebrows don't lower in that signature expression of anger. Alyn wonders if she's exhausted instead. "Look," she sighs, "I got named after the place. I have no relation to what it's called and who's in charge, okay?"

One mystery solved, another one brought up. "You got named after the Kiriyama community?" he says. He can't stop the disbelief from seeping into his tone.

Yuri glares at him, having caught the way he'd said it. "I don't remember my real name," she tells him. "Ask anyone who stays here on a regular basis and they'll say, 'the amnesiac,' before anything else about me. It's not exactly uncommon knowledge."

It's not uncommon, but it's shady as hell. "How long have you had amnesia?" Alyn at least tries to sound concerned this time.

"Three weeks?" She shrugs.

It's too short a time span. Definitely shady. There's every possibility that Yuri has been playing the community for a bunch of fools, but her end goal isn't clear to him if that's the case. Does she seek to assassinate someone? Throw the community into disarray? Steal from them without so much as a lick of suspicion thrown her way?

Yuri leans forward as he ponders this. Alyn watches as the ponytail slung over her shoulder hangs loosely in the air, revealing the skin of her neck that had previously been hidden under it. He takes note of the tattoo residing there, of the shape of the sparrow and the colours it contains, and listens carefully as she speaks.

"Why the questions?" she demands. "Why so curious about me when there's more interesting characters about?"

Alyn smiles to himself and leans back, off of his elbows and into a semi-proper posture. He might as well be honest about this. "It's hard to trust someone without a name," he tells her.

Yuri sneers at him and leans back as well. "It's hard to trust someone without a face, either," she growls back.

For a moment they sit in a silent stalemate. Both have made their thoughts on the other clear, neither willing to add to the pile of tension that's slowly building with their remarks. To Alyn, Yuri may try to lie; to Yuri, Alyn may try to cast doubt.

The door to the mess hall opens and a young voice calls for Yuri. The two break eye contact, both looking in the direction of the voice, and mutter to themselves, "Hamada?"

Umi stumbles in further as she tries not to drop any of the paperwork she holds tightly to her chest. Several people bump into her without so much as an apology, a few even deliberately slamming their shoulders into her as she determinedly heads for Yuri's table.

She looks like a mess, Alyn thinks. The previously inexplicably cutesy-looking girl holding the handgun during their first meeting now bears the look of a stressed mother who just woke up past her alarm; her hair is frizzing everywhere and there are small bags under her eyes; her jacket isn't sitting on both shoulders properly, and the laces of her boots have yet to be tied together.

Umi drops the paperwork onto the table just as Yuri snatches up her watch. "Mr. Kishitani wanted you to look over this," she wheezes, out of breath. "It's some kind of renovation plan, I think? He told me not to read it, but he said it was something you need to look at for a second opinion."

The watch is fastened on Yuri's wrist and she reaches out for the pile with one gloved hand. The other is held out to Umi patiently with the palm turned up, as though waiting for something. Alyn watches as Umi pulls a worn out fountain pen from the pocket of her jacket and places it carefully in Yuri's hand.

"This might take me a while," Yuri mutters. "Have you had breakfast?"

Umi waves a hand with a guilty smile. "I had some juice," she says. "I'll get some food at lunch, when things calm down a little."

Yuri grunts in agreement and scans over the paperwork, counting the pages with her index finger while she reads. Alyn shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He feels like he's just been thrust into something extremely corporate and business-y despite how military-oriented the community looks to be.

Thankfully, Umi takes it upon herself to greet him and provide a distraction. "Good morning, Grant," she says cheerily. "How'd you sleep?"

Like a baby. "Eh, okay."

"Have you checked up on Orimoto yet? I heard they had to give him some painkillers when he woke up."

"Valium," Yuri absently.

Umi covers her hand with her mouth as her eyes go impossibly wide. "Oh," she whispers. "Are we out of morphine? Anaesthetic? General painkillers?"

Yuri nods, but doesn't say anything in response. Umi adds that she'll keep an eye open for anything useful when she goes out again.

Clearing his throat, Alyn rises from his seat. "I think I might check up on him, actually," he tells the girls. "I wanna see how well I put his shoulder in."

"It was decent," Yuri notes.

 _Says the amnesiac medical practitioner_ , he wants to say. Alyn holds himself back and acts as though he hadn't heard her, turning for Umi and scratching his head nervously. "Can you show me the way to the infirmary?"

An uncertain expression befalls the younger girl, who glances uncertainly between Yuri and Alyn. Without so much as looking up from the papers as she scribbles a small note on the side of one block of text, Yuri tells her, "You've got time. Just come back when you're ready or meet me at my room to get the papers."

Seemingly satisfied by the answer, Umi brightens up immediately. She nods and waves for Alyn to follow her, leading the way out of the mess hall and to the infirmary.

* * *

 **Ehh not much to say here. The last update I did, I said I wasn't doing too well mentally. I guess I've improved a bit since then? I can't say it's a full recovery, because honestly it's still in the trial and error stage and boy is there a lot of error so far. I tried to push through it and get this out earlier, before a month had passed, but it got to be a bit too hard at times I guess. I think the only reason I got this done was because of pretty much everyone but me, even if it too a while to do. (I mean, it's 5 in the morning as I write this and I've yet to sleep lest I slip into a funk when I wake up haha)**

 **I guess the point of this ending author's note is that I want to say is thanks to everyone. Thanks to my helpers for being there for me and listening to me when I hit low points, thanks to the friends I made recently for being ready to accept my really awkward request to get to know you guys, thanks to everyone who showed interest in Trust, and thanks to you guys for just being here. I know not all of you review, but I do get PMs from you sometimes and it really means a lot to know that you're happy with how this is going so far. To those of you who do review, the tips and critique help a lot—if I ever show any improvement later on in the fic, I reckon it'd be thanks to you guys for pointing out areas to work on. Just thanks a lot. I really appreciate this, and the support really has helped a lot even if I don't respond for a while.**


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